Black and White
by The Grey Coincidence
Summary: "Vermin are vermin. Abbeybeasts are not. Evil in the skin. Good from the cot. Yet one way or another, in the end they'll need each other." ... "Destiny is a path everybeast must make for themselves. It must be built to be followed. Every brick is a decision made and every decision must be made by one's self."
1. A Ferret Named Fret

**A/N: Hello Redwall fandom! Originally I was going to publish this after I finished Journey to Japan and The Feral Islands-but I lost inspiration on those two and don't want a rushed ending, so I'm going to be patient and wait for it to come to me. House of Tamod has the same problem and I'm unsure of how to proceed with Back in the Day: The Tournament, so I decided to write this.**

 **Now I haven't read Redwall in a long time and the accents are alllost one.I will try to replicate it with some characters but not all of them. This story is kind of based of Outcast of Redwall, but not entirely. I always liked the vermin in the books and tended to like them more than the uhum Sue-ish good guys. They were more realistic-save and except that they were all pretty much bad guys.**

 **I don't want to write a 'good vermin' fic. I want to write a 'vermin' fix. What makes them 'bad'? And things like that. So without further ado let it begin!**

 _The warrior stood atop the walls of the abbey, looking down at the praising populace, showering him with flowers. In his paw he held the sword of Martin the Warrior, high above his head, behind him the defeated villains were kissing the dirt and begging forgiveness._

 _"Fret!" The town cried. And he showed off his huge muscles._

 _"Fret!" The ladies swooned, and fainted clear away._

 _"FRET!"_ Abbot Martin was yelling into his ear.

Fret was not like most abbey-beasts. Most denizens groomed themselves daily, Fret was practically forced to take baths. Most Redwallers ate with polite attitudes while making smalltalk. Fret spoke with bulging cheeks, tearing at his food like a hungry animal. Most Redwallers got up early, Fret would have slept all day if he could. But then again, most Redwallers weren't ferrets.

The ferret woke with a start, remembering painfully that he was supposed to be learning the abbey's history.

"You were sleeping." The old mouse scowled darkly. Abbot Martin was a light brown mouse, his whiskers long and crooked. His habit was a bright red.

"No!" He replied too quickly. "I was-"

"And you drooled all over your copy of the History of Mossflower." He seemed to be scowling even deeper. Then turned away from the ferret.

"As I was saying, Mathias defended Redwall against Cluny the-" The old mouse snapped his fingers at a hedgehog near the front of the class. The young hedgepig opened and closed his mouth. "Cluny the S-s-spatula!" This was from Grollo, the large chubby hedgehog was as dumb as a doornail in Fret's opinion. Clad in black pants he went bare footed, for he could not find sandals big enough for his feet. Though as the Head Cook's son he was skilled at naming any culinary equipment.

"No! Matiya!"

Matiya was a red squirrel about as tall as Fret and infinetly slower of mind. He was the best fighter of the abbey's youngsters, but he was also the most pompous and-Fret practically gagged at the word-chivalrous. He wore a grey vest and pants, an empty sword case hung at his size. (His wooden sword had been confiscated). "Cluny the Scewer!"

 _"NO!_ Come on this was your homework." The abbot seemed to be torn between Momchillo, a small brownish yellow mouse with humongous ears sticking out the side of his head, clad in a darkish brown habit; and Fret, the black-footed ferret with his sinister a looking black 'mask', wearing a dark grey habit. He went for the mouse.

"Mathias beat _Cluny the Scourge_ , in single combat."

Fret frowned, he had been hoping to get that question.

History was by far his least favorite subject. It was easier for Momchillo, with his proud mousey grin, to learn and remember all the heroics his kind were remembered for, with heroes like Martin the Warrior, Mathias the Warrior and others it was easy for him, all he had to do was imagine himself with a different name. Fret had none of his kind to look up to-the way history said it they all ended up dead or missing, and before that they had all been villainous scum.

"And Mathias's first son was named, what? Fret?" Asked the abbot.

"Um-", it had been a mouse… And Slagar the Cruel had kidnapped them-but Slagar was really called Chickenhound and he was a fox and... "Martin?"

The abbot bit his lip. "Momchillo?"

"Mattimeo."

"Correct."

Fret scowled and slouched. He had known about Cluny the Scourge and Slagar the Cruel, but not about Mattimeo. Why couldn't it have been another question? Why couldn't it have been a ferret wearing Martin's armour, and waving the sword around his head and defending Redwall? Fret imagined himself in his mind's eye, banishing the cheeky grin off of Momchillo with a wave of his sword.

"Fret! Stay awake!"

"How was History?" Constance asked, as she picked up the young ferret. She was somewhat chubby, and taller by a head than her 'son'. She was a mouse, and wore a lighter green habit.

"Great." He lied. That was another oddment. Lying was easy for him, and came naturally. Sometimes he lied so convincingly he wondered whether he was telling the truth.

"You are a horrible little liar." Was Constance's reply. The young ferret frowned.

Of all the people in Redwall Abbey, Constance was the only one who seemed to truly care about him. There was Jon Connington… But there were times where Fret felt that that mouse only acted the way he did because Constance made him. She had raised him from mischievous dibbun to rude youth, and yet loved him like he was an angel.

"I'm not lying! I'm great at History!" He snapped. Fret snapped often, something in his chest seemed to always force him into defending himself. And that defence came out as snapping.

Constance rolled her eyes, and turned him towards their home, pushing him forwards gently. "And I'm a dibbun. Fret you really mustn't lie, it's not what we do here in the abbey."

Fret snapped again. "But I'm not lying!" But he was lying. He was awful at History, he hated history and he wanted Abbot Martin to just go die in a hole! Well, maybe die was a tad harsh.

"Dearie you hate history and wish Abbot Martin would stop being a stick in the mud." Sometimes it felt like Constance was also abnormal-how else would she be capable of understanding his complex mind?

"Yes momma, but it's not my fault. He gives Momchillo all the easy questions! And he only asks me when I fall asleep in class!"

"You fall asleep in class?" Constance chided with a wide grin on her face.

"No! I don't!"

As the two travelled further down towards the mousemaid's cottage, arguing back and forth that Fret was not bad at lying, and that that was offensive to lying! Jon watched from within. He was a grey mouse, smaller than Constance by half and a head bellow Fret. Clad in old, grey armour with a round wooden shield strapped to his back. At his side, buckled and ready was a shortsword. He waved merrily at the duo and walked over to them, beaming.

"Sweet sister!" He hugged her round the middle, before turning to the skinny ferret. "Ah, Young Fret! What ho? Still want to give Abbot Martin a kick up the-"

"Jon!" His sister exclaimed.

"I don't want to kick him! I want to get him to shut up!"

Jon nodded knowingly and hugged his 'nephew'. This was another oddment. Most of his age adored getting babied by their parental figures, and while Fret didn't mind that affection from Constance, he heavily disliked it from Jon, and thus cringed at the feel of the mouse.

"I got you something!" The grey mouse said suddenly, and withdrew a round metal thing, with a string. For a second Fret hoped it was a club, with which he could repeatedly whack Momchillo with. Maybe the next time that mouse tried to lock him in the latrines he could get a black eye... Then his uncle flicked the metal Bob, which spun downwards, and with another flick it spun upwards. It was a toy.

"Thanks. I love it." Fret replied as the mouse placed it in his paw. He was unable to hide his apparent disappointment and dislike.

Connington frowned. But waved away the bad mood. "We'll call you for dinner. Have fun!"

Much to his chagrin Constance gave him a large, wet kiss on his forehead fur. Before shooing him away with a 'have fun sweetie!'.

Fret turned away, feeling grumpier than ever. Constance understood him… Or rather most of him. She lived amongst other mice and nobody treated her like filth, most people treated Fret like an unpleasant smelling slug or some other slimy thing that must be avoided at all costs. But the youngsters loved him-they loved to bite his tail, to pull at his small ears, to try and pull off his 'mask'. And those his age loved him even more. Grollo loved to sit on him, Matiya loved to demonstrate his skill at swordplay on him, and Momchillo enjoyed laughing at him while the other two pretended he was vermin and they were abbey heroes, giving him his due for trying to sack Redwall. One time he had been Cluny the Scourge and was forced down a latrine, another time he had been hung over the wall until 'Slagar the Cruel' told them where their young ones were. And both times the trio had gotten nothing but a trip to the abbey's kitchen to scrub pots and pans.

Seething from the past injustices Fret flicked his paw, the circular item rolled down, but with another flick it rolled upwards. Despite his disappointment Fret came to love the toy. It was entertaining, the up and down swaying of the circle at the end of the string. And distracting too. He idly watched the maids of his age, picking berries, and felt something in him melt as his heart skipped a beat as he caught sight of a pretty albino. He blushed and continued with his toy.

"Hey Fret!" Matiya's paw landed on his shoulder and squeezed tightly. He and the ferret were the same height, but the squirrel was unimaginably more powerful. "What's that new toy you got?" Momchillo and Grollo were not in sight.

"Let me go!" Fret snapped.

"But you didn't answer my question." He sneered.

"My uncle gave it to me!" Fret retorted.

"Let me see it!"

"No! It's mine!"

"He stole it Matiya. You have to take it back by asking nicely." Momchillo turned the corner.

Fret was infuriated. This was not fair. It was his, his uncle had just given it to him. How could they suggest he stole it? "Come on vermin, give i"-the toy doubled as a cheap weapon, Fret unfurled it quickly, so that it landed on the mouse's nose with a loud _THWACK!_ Momchillo fell on his rump and started crying. Fret slumped, he knew what was coming, as the maids gasped and rushed over, the albino giving him a look of utter disgust.

"Why do they always gang up on me? I can take that stupid mouse just fine if Grollo and Matiya aren't there to save his tail!" He complained, ripping the skin of an innocent potatoe he seemed to especially loathe.

"Well darling, they just don't like you." Constance said soothingly.

"It's not fair! I had to crawl through excrement for a whole day and all they had to do was wash dishes! Then I hit him on the nose because he was being a total prat, and I have to clean the dishes, clean the latrines out and polish Martin's ugly sword for three days!" He threw the potatoes into Constance's cauldron with so much anger it bounced back and got him on the nose. "And I had to give that toy to that stupid mouse because he picked on me!"

Fret had been ranting since the Badgermum-he didn't call her by her name- had proclaimed his punishment. The punishment wasn't what truly bothered him, it was that the maids had all vouched along with Matiya, that Fret had attacked Momchillo for no reason, and had hit him multiple times, while cackling madly. It wasn't fair. They had seen Matiya grab him, but had still lied-it had been Fret's word against all of theirs, and everyone was convinced he was a liar anyways, so his word wasbas good as dust.

"Fret calm down." His mother chided. "We all get what's due to us one day-"

"No _you_ do! Because you're not a liar!" He now was violently chopping the watercress. "I'm a lying, sneaky, good-for-nothing _ferret_! All I get is that stupid mouse's ugly grin!" The knife missed his next target, a pile of carrots, and left a gash in his finger. He hastily dropped the knife and placed his finger in his mouth, tears welling up behind his eyes as he tried to blink them away.

Constance walked forwards and hugged him. "I'll have a word with their parents. They might not like you, but that's no excuse for hurting my baby."

"They didn't hurt me!" Fret snapped, again feeling the need to defend himself. They hadn't hurt him, the albino had. She had vouched for her fellow mouse rather than the innocent. So had the others...

"Of course not,sweetie." Constance murmured, rubbing the back of his head. "Now, wipe away those tears-"

"They're not tears! They're allergies!" Fret snapped. But he was lying again.

"Of course. Now wipe them away and let's chop up those carrots."

Fret picked the knife up again. But he paused. "Why are there no ferrets in Redwall?" He asked.

Constance stopped and paused for a while, thinking of the easiest way to describe the situation.

"And why do they say I'm a vermin? I don't do rotten things!" Except lying. But they think I lie anyways, even when I tell the truth.

"Dearie, I have no idea why they would call you that. They just feel the need to be able to push someone around." She replied, glad for once that his tongue was quicker than his head. She hadn't thought of an answer for the first question.

The door opened and Jon Connington walked in, though now he looked a little more serious. "Oh there's my favorite nephew!" He said, throwing a fake smile at him.

"I'm your only nephew!" Fret snapped.

Connington seemed to deflate. "Look, son, I heard what happened. I'm sorry about the to-"

"I don't care about the stupid toy! It's that stupid mouse, he won't leave me alone!" And the maid… Her pristine white fur wouldn't leave him alone either…

Connington seemed a little hurt by his nephew's rude reply, but beared with it and changed the subject. "Anything I can do to help?" He asked Constance.

"You can start by throttling that fat, ugly son of a-"

 _"FRET!"_ Constance yelled.

 _"WHAT!?"_ The ferret snapped.

"You're bleeding thick!" The ferret looked down at his paw and found it dripping with blood. He went pale after that. "Here. Come with me." The mouse ushered him to the safety of his bed, where she lay him flat on his back. She bandaged it quickly, and gave him another big, wet kiss on the forehead. "Try and rest up dearie. If you're still hungry I can bring you the soup later and some bread rolls." She gave him another kiss and left him. He sighed, feeling uncomfortably grateful for his mother's support. Uncomfortable? Why was he uncomfortable? Weren't young ones meant to be comforted by a parental figure? He loved his mother. It was normal, wasn't it? Why was he so different?


	2. A Hopeful Change

"Fret is a good lad!" Connington continued.

Abbot Martin ' _humphed_ ' sceptically and tried to close the door in his face. Connington was persistent and clambered in through the window.

"He is! He really is! The others pick on him because he's different but deep down he's a sweet kid-"

"Who lies more often than not, falls asleep during lessons and is always quick to snap at people and resort to violence! He is a vermin Connington, and nothing you say or do can change that." The old man finished heavily.

The mice stared into each other's eyes for a long time.

"The nature of his kind lives inside him. For now he lies to get himself out of trouble, how long until he uses it to cause some?" The old abbot continued.

"That's _poppycock_! Nobody believes him anyways! And whether he deserves it or not he needs to get out once in his life. He deserves to know what's hidden behind those great red walls. He's old enough!"

"And you expect the Skipper of the otters to let some vermin-pup in, because he 'needs to see something?' No,the boy will stay inside as he always does, and when he's older and eventually gets banished then he can see the outside world all he wants!"

"He isn't Veil Sixclaw, Abbot. He's my nephew-"

"Adopted! His parents were raiders and pillagers and murderers-"

Connington cut short the old man. "My sister is not a raider, pillager or murderer. He's coming this season and if he behaves, next season too."

"And the Skipper-"

"And I have known each other since we were welps, I don't think he'll refuse me."

"And the boy's mother?" The word 'mother' sounded especially forced.

Connington deflated. "Uh, well I suppose you should tell her that-"

"You convinced me to let her precious dibbun out of the safety of our abbey. Yes, shall we go now?"

Connington grew pale. Constance would probanly throttle him if she heard it put that way. "Maybe I should speak to her first?"

"Excellent, excellent! When she insists he goes, he may go." The Abbot pressed his advantage. The battle was won. Constance would never let go of that ferret, not even if her life depended on it.

Fret endured his punishment like he always did. He complained non-stop.

"It's not _fair_. It's not _fair_. It's not _fair_." He would repeat out loud as he scrubbed the grease off the pans, his paws elbow-deep in hot, stuffy, soapy water. He only shut up when it looked like the cook was going to throw him in as well. Then he continued muttering under his breath.

"Fret!" Rang the familiar cry. All day people had been asking him to do 'favours' he had no choice but to accept. That and the old mole kept asking him whether he saw her pies.

"No! I didn't see your _blueberry-cream-coated-custard-filled-sweet-pies!"_ He snapped, turning to his uncle. He looked surprised for a moment, but was quickly annoyed again. "What do you want?"

" _Tsk tsk_ , your manners always were awful. Still I think you'll be happy to hear what I got you-"

"If it's the stupid toy I don't want it!" The ferret snapped. "It's boring anyways and that ugly mouse can keep it!" Yet another lie. He had liked that toy.

"I wasn't talking about the toy. I was talking about the little excursions you dibbuns have twice a season. You can go."

The ferret eyed him suspiciously. "I can? But… I'm getting punished and-"

His uncle waved away his doubts. "Fret, you're old enough to know what's outside this abbey." He placed a paw on the ferret's shoulder and for a moment Fret wanted to hug him, until he realized that was a soppy thought and pushed it away.

The first trip had been when Fret had been four seasons old. He had not wanted to go, but then Momchillo and Matiya and Grollo had gone on and on and on about how wonderful everything was beyond the abbey. Then he had wanted to go, but his momma had been worried and decided he had to be older. He wanted to go so badly, to see Mossflower woods and prance around in fields of flowers and see the rivers and climb the trees where so much had happened. He had given up a while ago though, why all of a sudden? How?

"But we have to convince your mother first." Came Connington's voice.

Easier said than done.

"Momma please! Everyone's always gone except me! I'm already different enough as it is!"

"Fret, it's, it's dangerous! You can't swim and otter-food burns! You could drown! Breathe fire! Get lost! No, you're too young!"

"But momma-" He whined.

"No buts! I'm sorry Fret, maybe next season."

"You always say that!" Fret complained. "And I'm old enough. I'm not a dibbun momma please!"

"But your finger's still hurt! And your chores and-"

"Please momma, I'll be good! I promise. I won't lie, I won't fight, I won't do anything bad ever, ever, ever again!"

Constance watched him plead, a knot tightening around her heart. He was right, he wasn't a dibbun anymore. He was older… Soon he would be taller than her…but he was not old enough! Not yet!

"Fret, how about you run along now. My sister and I will talk about this."

The ferret gave his mother one last pleading look, before walking out with deliberate slowness.

"Jon, he's too young and-"

"He's old enough. All he's ever known is the abbey-"

"And the otters! They're too loud and rowdy and he's vermin to them-"

"And almost everyone here. He needs to see the world with his own eyes. Let him go."

"But, what if he, you know-"

"He'll come back. I promise you, he'll come back and he'll thank you and-"

Fret walked away from the house. He was torn between the hope fluttering inside him and the dread building up. She would let him in the end. Of course she would, why shouldn't she? And then there was the prospect of putting Redwall behind him. He could walk along Mossflower Woods, teeming as it was with critters great and small, wild and tame. He could smell the air of the forest he could spend hours on end staring at from the walls.

Then he tripped and fell on his front and Momchillo was sitting on his back, idly flicking the stolen toy over Fret's face.

"What ho, vermin? Hast thou smelt sour cheese, for thy strides are long and bouncing."

That made no sense. "If you're going to speak Shaggspearian you might as well do it right."

"A vermin lectures me on the art of speach. This day is stunning to behold!"

Fret zoned him out. He would not let the mouse ruin his mood. He would not.

"We're going to the otters this time. Maybe we can bring back some ferret soup for you?"

"Ferret soup? That's bad even by your standards. And you won't have to. I'm coming too!"

Momchillo blinked, and the toy sailed out of his grip and into the ferret's waiting paw. "Wait, what?! Since when?"

"Since today." Fret couldn't keep the smugness out of his voice as he spoke.

"Oh Momchillo, you've caught yourself a carpet! Budge up for the maids!" Came Matiya's voice, but Fret pulled out and dusted himself. Matiya was flanked by some ugly mole and the albino. His eyes felt like they were warming up just looking at her.

"Momchillo. Helloooo. Is something wrong?"

"He's coming?" The mouse pointed at the ferret. It was all he could do to not grin from ear to ear.

"Coming? Coming? He's-"

"Going to meet the otters." Fret said casually, playing once again with the odd toy.

Everyone blinked at him. "Oim bi thunkin' this moight'n be an joike."

Fret felt his furs shiver. He hated mole speech, he hated mole speech, he hated mole speech. "Why would I joke about that?" The ferret replied smugly. And so he left them, and made his way back home.

His momma still looked grim, but Connington was looking very proud of himself.

"Are you sure you want this?" She asked hesitantly.

"Yes! Of course I do!" He replied instantly.

She sighed. "You can go."

"Yes!" Fret whooped and without thinking threw himself into his mother's arms. She returned the hug just as he began to cringe from his sudden 'mushy' behaviour. Still, he was so excited he didn't let go for a long time.

Fret counted the days until they left. Nothing could dampen his spirits. Not the soapey water, not Abbot Martin.

Then the day finally came and for once he woke up early and was preparing breakfast.

Constance blinked at the sight of him, sporting an apron over his habit, buttering toast and sending a 'Good Morning' her way.

"Good morning." She replied caustiously. "You woke up earlier."

"Yup!" He said with such a large grin. "And I made breakfast momma!"

Constance blinked again. Why was he acting so strangely? When had he learned to cook toast?

"So momma, I'm gonna get ready for the trip."

Constance lost her appetite and stared at the ferret with apprehension. Was he too young? Would everything be okay?

Then Connington waddled in with another loud 'good morning', a bundle wrapped up in his paws.

Constance eyed it suspiciously. "What is that?" "A gift for my nephew, of course." And he held it up. It was a large brown robe with a hood large enough to hide Fret's whole face. Then in a voice he knew wouldn't carry, he muttered. "This way nobody tries to hurt him."

Fret was the first dibbun waiting outside the gates, flicking the odd toy he had decided to call a yo-yo for no good reason, beyond being bored.

The next to arrive was the young mole who had accused him of joking. They gave each other such long looks of disapproval as they looked eye to eye.

"You are coming." Grollo, the large hedgehog that was the cook's son blinked at him.

Fret grinned so evilly it made the hedgehog shudder. Then came the albini, who 'humphed' at the sight of him before joining the mole. The ferret's heart tightened at this. He had done nothing to her, yet she looked at him like he was less than dung.

Then Connington came followed by Momchillo and Matiya, both looked apalled that Fret was amongst them.

The grown-up mouse addressed the children. "Right! Off we go!"

Fret was slightly confused as to why Connington was there, but then he figured that his momma had forced him to do it.

Then the gates opened, and for the first time ever Fret walked through them.

* * *

 _Footnote: And thus Fret embarks upon his first outing from the abbey. What happens next?_

 _To be honest I like writing Fret's character a lot. The rude, snappy kid with his grumpy attitude. Notbthat I can relate to him or anything, it's just tht he makes for an odd protagonist._

 _Enjoy_


	3. A Trip Gone Dreadfully Wrong

Mossflower was endless, or so it seemed to Fret. The trees rustled gently in the breeze and sent golden leaves floating slowly downwards to pave the path in front of the group. The floor was soft and crunchy and there seemed to be no greater pleasure than to kick at a large pile of the leaves and watch them scatter.

It was cold in a refreshing sort of way and the colours gleamed and shivered endlessly on. The trees were like beasts, all gnarled and wisened and old brown wood that seemed to smile as they passed.

Fret felt the wind blow lightly into his face, his fur rustling in the breeze. He felt the leaves crunch under him as he walked, trying to take in everything, to remember everything from the wind to the wood. He felt the hood of his cloak get pulled up above his face, throwing him into shadow.

"Uncle!" He snapped, trying to take the cloth off of his eyes so that he wasn't walking blindly.

"Sorry, but we wouldn't want you catching a cold now would we? Best keep the hood on."

Abbot Martin was talking about history again, but nobody listened to him.

The albino and the mole maid were giggling continuously. Connington was whistling and occasionally stealing looks in his nephew's direction. Momchillo, Matiya and Grollo were singing like drunk soldiers and laughing at what the trio probably thought were the best jokes in the world, but Fret knew was dull, unsophisticated humour.

Then, every now and then the ferret would spot a nut. A hazel or an acorn or a wallnut. He would pick it up and smash it into a tree until it cracked and he could enjoy the goodness within at a leisurely pace.

Abbot Martin was going on about some Lutra-lady who had misplaced her pearls, and Fret was bringing a hazel into a tree with sufficient force to dent an axe. Naturally the hazel stood still. He was going for the fifth hit when he heard someone behind him.

"Tsk, tsk. You abbeybeasts always were a shade too slow, if I might say so. Here lad, give it here."

He stood with a long, streamlined form, well-toned with muscles. He had a long, jagged scar along his gut, and was missing a finger on his right paw. But he still looked charming.

Fret handed the otter the hazel, which was crushed in a strong paw in less than a second. The shell cracked apart and the otter handed the ferret the nut.

"Skipper! Long time no see, old friend!" Came Connington, stepping in front of Fret and holding out his paw for the otter.

Skipper roared with delight at the sight of him. "Ah Jon, you old rogue! It has been too long? What, three seasons?"

"Indeed! I'd have come sooner, but my sister insisted I stay close to home after that business up north."

Skipper laughed so hard spit flew through the trees, a bit of it landed on Fret's hood, and he was now glad his uncle had gifted the cloak to him. It would have taken forever to wash that off his fur.

"Do you 'member that shrew? The one that became the Log-a-log after he barged that varmint off the cliff." The Skipper wiped his eyes. "And little Queens, oh bless her soul, remember when she caught that rat, barged him into the tree until he pis-"

Abbot Martin thought it best to intervene, so as not to damage his pupil's ears. "Skipper, it's nice that you could come and join us." His voice had an edge to it Fret thought had only been reserved for him. Evidently not.

"Oh, of course. You know how much I love little'uns. Ah, bless my soul. You're adorable, the lot of you." He was staring at them all, and the majority found themselves blushing. Fret frowned instead, nobody in their right mind described him as adorable-except his mother and uncle, but they were never in their right minds anyways, but his look went unnoticed. Matiya had not blushed either, instead he had scoffed and muttered something along the lines of 'I won't be so 'adorable' when I'm splattered in the blood of my enemies', or at least that was what Fret had imagined he would have said. The hood was hampering his hearing. He was about to remove it when Connington whipped out a handkerchief and rubbed the spit off properly.

"My my Skipper, you ought to be more careful. At this rate you could get us all infected!"

Skipper was annoying, Fret realized. He was full of stories of chivalry and gallantry, and daring odds he had narrowly managed to save himself from. Naturally the other children listened eagerly to the tales, asking constant questions such as 'how did you know the sword would break through his armour?' or 'was she really as pretty as you say?'. He looked and sounded like a hero, but Fret found himself having a large dislike of the otter chief. It felt the same as all the stories he hated in history, too nonsensical. With ridiculous odds, and the victory of Redwall and the Abbey undoubtable. It was just the same story with different faces.

To his surprise though, his uncle wasn't listening either. He felt like asking why, but decided he wasn't bothered enough. There was an itch behind his ear, and he bent his paw back to scratch it, and tripped over his uncle's tail. He fell face forwards, and climbed back up, his hood still on, but the itch forgotten. Connington looked sheepish, but wasn't looking him in the eye. Fret supposed it must have been an accident.

He stayed at the back, cracking his wallnuts and listening to the others enjoying themselves.

Eventually, after his head had begun to throb of the Skipper's appalling musical talent, they came upon a settlement. Otters everywhere greeted them, and many had an eye for Fret, in his large hooded cloak. But he ignored them and kept cracking his wallnuts. It was an odd place to live, with tents made of blankets and old sails, or upturned canoes from which came snores and peaked out the occupant's long, slender tail. Otter spears lined the place like a fence, their infamous javelins racked up against trees. There were a pair of younger ones who were hurling rocks at a target with their slings. The target, however, had not been hit once.

"So who's hungry?" The Skipper cried to raccuous roars of 'me', 'me', 'me'. He chuckled, and whistled. The two otters who had been playing with the slings raced over. "Angus, Andrew, give the kids some stew, I have plenty to catch up with me old abbeydweller pals."

The Skipper took the two mice with him, Connington weakly protesting that he 'ought to do something'.

"Ah, abbeydwellers." Said the otter that was Angus or Andrew, Fret could not tell them apart.

"Blessed lil' dibbuns."

"Right. After you m'lady." The otter held out his paw for the molemaid, who blushed, took it and then they were all skipping away, Fret trailing behind the group. There were no wallnuts here.

The twins took them to a large stream, where crystalline water rushed past small, shining stones. There, already smoking, was a cauldron over a flame, with little pots piled around.

The stew smelled strong, and peppery. Fret sneezed audibly. Momchillo peaked inside the cauldron, tip-toeing on Grollo's head so that he could look into it.

"It's not ready yet, but I expect there shan't be a problem with that. So abbeybeasts, we are Angus and Andrew, young un's of the otters and the bes' slingers you'll ever know."

Matiya scoffed arrogantly. "A sling is a weak weapon. Bows are better."

The otters shared a sly smile, then launched into a story. "We knew a varmint once upon a season."

"Aye, an' he said the same pretty thing."

"They was also the las' words that came out his mouth before two rocks flew into his head."

"An' the ferret breathed no more."

"Why did you kill him?" Fret snapped, annoyed. These two were worst than the redwallers, and dumb as dirt if they thought they could hand feed them all their rubbish.

Angus shrugged. "He was up t'no good. All varmint are."

"Oh really, he insulted you so you killed him?" Maybe this was why his mother never let him leave the abbey. If this was the fate that befell all ferrets...

"Well if we hadn't, he'd have killed us."

"Yeah, listen lad, I get it might be too gory for you, but all ferrets are rotten to the core. The best thing for them is to be killed." The other children were silent as the grave, watching Fret and the otters uncertainly.

The words stung so strongly it was as if the otters had both slapped him. He knew they hadn't killed anyone, he knew it was just another dumb story. But he was sick and tired of dumb stories and dead vermin. He rose to his feet and threw off his hood.

Both of their jaws fell open. Fret glared at them. "We're all bloody rotten, eh? You're just too bloody stupid to think! If you had killed a ferret then how come neither of you could hit a larger target?

Angus stammered inelligibly, but Andrew managed to form words. "You-you're a af-ferret."

Fret clapped for them, slowly and deliberately. He felt stronger now, from the shocked looks on their faces. He felt invincible. Then Matiya started laughing at the otters.

"What's the matter? Scared of this little'un?"

The other children laughed too, as if Fret was nothing to be scared of at all.

The otter twins went beet red. "Just haven't met one who could talk."

"Yeah, most are dumb as dir-"

"But still sufficiently dangerous to warrant killing them? Or did you just sit there wetting yourselves?" Fret snapped again. The dibbuns were laughing at the otters, Fret was making them laugh. He felt like he was flying, untouchable, soaring above them all.

Then Angus rose and glared down at him, and courage flew out faster than a candle in a storm. "Your kind are nothin' but bloody butchers and angry lil' people who steal things you can't make for yourselves."

Fret found courage in the urge to defend himself. "And you're so scared of lil' black and white people that you kill them so that you don't wet yourself!"

Andrew was growling, but Fret ignored the danger signs, such was his need to defend himself.

"I'm _not_ a thief. I'm _not_ a vermin. I _am_ a ferret. _You_ are just a stupid, slimy-"

Andrew lunged, leaping over the cauldron pot. He fell on top of Fret, his fist raised. Instinct made the ferret lash out first and his claws sliced through the otter's skin and fur on his cheek. Blood dribbled down, and the otter forgot his anger at the pain, and rose, touching his cheek with his paw.

"You scratched him." Angus muttered, dumbfounded.

"He went for me first!" Fret snapped, but there was a pleading tone to his voice, he hadn't meant to lash out it has just… just happened. He felt dread rush into his stomach. Noone was laughing now, the camp was quite, save for the crackling of the fire. He knew the way this would end. He started it. He always started it. No matter what he said he was going to be punished for attacking Andrew. The others would lie and he would be made to scrub the roofs. But that wasn't the worst part. His paw was still coated in otter blood, the faces around him were shocked, fearful even. "I-I-I didn't. I'm sorry, I just.. I couldn't" His throat was choking up, the pressure in his chest had never been stronger. He needed to lash out, to explain, to, to-

" _VARMINT_!" The Skipper thundered forwards, and charged at the ferret. Fret froze in fear. He whimpered weakly, he wasn't vermin, he wasn't, he wasn't… Then why had he attacked Andrew? The otter raised his spear. _I'll die. He's going to kill me. I'm going to die._ The thought made his heart hammer and his eyes wetten, but he couldn't bring himself to move. He was so scared.

Then, before the spear could hit him, Connington's small, grey form flung into the otter's side, and the sharpened wood missed by an inch. Fret was still frozen in place, his eyes watering. He was shivering. He was so scared.

Connington, despite his smaller size, had the Skipper down. "Stop! Stop! Stop! Stop!" He was bouncing on the otter's chest.

"What!? What on earth!?" Abbot Martin had joined the screaming. "Skipper!? What? This is madness, madness!" He looked like he was having a heart attack, his brown fur standing on end.

"Varmint! Varmint! Var- _Connington_! What are you-doing?!"

"Stop! You insane lunatic! _Think_! He's a child! Look at him!" The little mouse slapped the otter chief hard across the face.

That brought Skipper to his senses. He took a deep breath, glanced briefly at Fret, who looked utterly petrified and then glared at the older mice. "What in the seven seas are you playing at?"

"Well, you see he's a member of our-" Martin began, eyeing Fret with what looked like pity.

Connington cut him off, and hopped off the otter, placing a firm paw on the ferret's shoulder, and patting his nephew on the back. "He's my nephew."

The Skipper opened his mouth, closed it and then tried to form words. "Bu-wha-wh-your sister, and who did you, how on earth-"

"He's Constance's son." Connington replied firmly. "And my nephew."

"I-I, he's a varmint!" The Skipper replied, baffled.

"He's _not_!" Connington snapped, sounding a lot like his nephew.

"He's a ferret!"

"So?" The mouse was becoming more and more firm with every word.

"So he's _varmint_! What do you think you're doing with him over here?!" Skipper barked, spit flying out his mouth.

"He's my nephew and may go wherever he pleases!"

"Not if I say so. Have you forgotten everything Jon? What his kind do?"

The mouse hesitated. "I believe judging someone based on their species is wrong."

"Truly? Your nephew's different, eh? He has blood on his paw, I see."

Connington was not ready for that, he had been so caught up with the whole situation he hadn't even noticed the blood.

Andrew explained. "He attacked me, sir."

Connington opened his mouth, and closed it again.

"Aye, we was just joking and he went mad-"

" _Liar_!" Fret snapped. "Liar liar liar liar liar!" He was crying. The tears were rolling down his face, thick and fast. He pulled out of his uncle's grip and trudged away, sobbing incoherently. He tripped on the hem of his cloak, got up and continued walking away.

He could scarcely see ahead of him, with the salt water falling down his face. The clearing was silent, but for his receding footsteps and occasional sobs.

Connington glared so fiercely Angus and Andrew had the grace to look abashed. "Yes, I'm sure that is _exactly_ how it happened." Andrew bit his lip. Then the small, grey mouse scampered away. "Fret! Fret, it's alright. Fret!"

* * *

 _Footnote: Poor Fret, am I right?_


	4. Two Mismatched Vermin

"Fret! Come back! Skipper just overreacted a litt-"

"A LITTLE!" Fret snapped, rounding on the small mouse.

"Okay-a lot, but-"

"BUT NOTHING!" The ferret yelled, gesticulating wildly. "They hate me." He whined. "They all do, they always have! I'm just-just vermin!"

"You're not vermin." Connington soothed, trying to pull his nephew into a hug.

Fret pulled away. "I'm going ho- to Redwall. I'm going to Redwall."

"Well that's fine. We can get this whole incident smoothed over before anyone can get you into any more trouble." Jon said, relief flooding over him.

"Uncle… Can you just… Leave?" Fret asked, biting down the urge to yell 'leave me alone'.

Connington paused, considering the situation. On one paw it was best to get Fret home safe and sound. On the other his nephew had just had a traumatic ordeal… The small mouse sighed.

"Okay Fret, but don't go running off now. And- stay out of trouble and-are you sure you don't want me to come?"

Fret nodded.

He sighed again. "Just… Go home and tell your momma I'm sorry."

Fret nodded again and scampered off back the way he came, until Connington was out of earshot. The ferret made sure he wasn't being followed, then took a different path.

He was sick of it all. They all lied and made him out to be a villain, they hated the very sight of him. The Skipper had tried to kill him... And the root cause of it all was that he was 'vermin'. He was not vermin, but that was all they saw when they looked at him. If that was all they would ever see him as, why should he go back to scrubbing pans and falling asleep in lessons? He could learn to fight, become a travelling warrior-a tourney knight. He could wear steel so thick nobody would know what he was. Suddenly an image came to his mind. Fret, all clad in armour, winning a tourney at Redwall, being respected by the other dibbuns, getting cheered for by the grown-ups… And best of all was the look on their faces when he removed the helm. He could almost hear Constance yelling through the din. 'That's my son! That's my son!' Then as thoughts turned to his mother the image vanished. What would become of her if he left? A part of him wanted to yell that she didn't love him, that it was all a lie- but the other part refused to listen. So much of her life had been dedicated to him.

He lay against a tree, his arms crossed over, fuming. He didn't want to go back to the stupid abbey, but he couldn't just abandon Constance-then he was no better than the vermin everyone thought he was.

* * *

"I told him he shouldn't come, but Connington refused." Abbot Martin wheezed, trying to relax the tense atmosphere that surrounded the otter captain.

"Aye, he's a stubborn one. Since when did he have a pet varmint anyways?" The Skipper agreed.

"He's not a pet." The small grey mouse snapped-sounding remarkably like his nephew. "As I told you before, he's my nephew."

Both Abbot Martin and the Skipper humphed.

"Tell me Jon, how many ferrets have besieged Redwall?" The old brown mouse asked.

"More than I care to count, but Fret was not one of them, nor will he ever be." The grey one shot back.

"Aye, mayhaps he'll just be a cutthroat." The otter captain remarked darkly.

"If you treat him like one what do you expect? You tried to kill him."

"He harmed one of mine!" Skipper replied, a low growl building up behind his throat.

"Oh yes, good graces, look at them splashing-oh the scars! Certainly more traumatic than staring death right in the face." He pointed pointedly at the youngsters, currently laughing and splashing in the river. "They don't look very 'harmed' to me!"

"Bugger you and your sarcasm." The burly otter snapped, for he had nothing better to say.

"Where is the boy now, Connington?" Abbot Martin asked, once again trying to lighten the mood.

"On his way back to the abbey."

"Unaccompanied, alone and on his first outing to Mossflower woods. Tsk, tsk and you expect him to go home? Well, your faith is commendable. Shall we give him a little test? If he returns to the abbey then he is as you say, a good lad-if not then I suppose it was better this way."

Connington looked like he was about to explode. "Fret is going to go home and if he doesn't I will personally march through the Dark Forest and back, dragging him if I have to. He is my nephew!"

"Perhaps we ought to change the subject." The old mouse managed to squeak.

"Have you forgotten Jon? What the varmints done to me? And Rowland, you remember Rowland don't you?"

"I haven't forgotten." The small mouse snarled.

"I think you could do with a reminder."

* * *

What was that noise? It was a continuous compilation of grunting and labored breath that cut through the pleasant noise in the forest. Curiosity made Fret want to investigate, but he proceeded with caution. There were many legends of Mossflower Woods. Of cats, and owls and snakes. He crept close to the river, and peered cautiously from the bushes. It was not a cat, an owl or a snake.

A dark grey rat-for no mouse would hold a weasel- was holding a weasel, who was pulling on a thin shaft of wood with an even thinner rope poking into the water.

Fret realized what would happen a second before it happened. The shaft snapped loudly and the two fell into a tangle. Curiosity tightened it's grip on Fret, who had never seen either kind before.

The weasel slipped free of the tangle with practiced ease. "Dammit Grey! I told you the stick wouldn't last!" The weasel scurried over to the river. "I'll get you next time you bloody kipper!" In response the water splashed over him. "Ack!"

The rat had sat up, and was sniffing madly. When he spoke Fret was surprised by how mellow his voice was. Soft and gentle. "Do you smell that?" The rodent stood up, and crawled around, his nose sniffing the shore.

"All I can smell is defeat." The weasel commented, drawing a dirk and picking at yellowing teeth with it, before spitting into the river.

The rat stopped in front of Fret's bush, giving a wide grin that showed off his unevenly sized buckteeth. "Hullo!"

His cover blown Fret stood up. "H-hello." The rat's eyes were wide and warm, and his face looked familiar.

"Ah, a ferret." The weasel interjected.

"I'm Fret." The ferret said politely. Neither seemed to be any older than he was. The weasel was small and thin, about the size of his uncle, yet more elastic. His fur was a bright oramge, but looked like it could redden easily. The rat was taller, but not quite as tall as Fret. He was wider though, and his tail a fat, pink worm.

"He's Grey, I'm Sharpie." The weasel seemed bored and walked back to the river.

"I never smelt you before." Said the grey rat, Grey.

"Me...neither." It felt strange, talking to a pair of strangers. There were rarely any strangers in Redwall, and even less who would speak with him.

"Do you live here?"

"More or less." Fret responded, still unsure.

An awkward silence descended, and was broken by loud splashings of water as Sharpie hurled pebbles into the river. "I'm gonna starve to death!" He whined, falling dramatically to the floor.

"But you had breakfast-"

"Grey, I'm starving now!"

"There are nuts in the woods." Fret offered, trying to be helpful.

Both vermin burst out laughing. Sharpie got to his feet, cackling like a clown."Do I look like a bloody _squirrel_ to you?" He fell back to the floor, his legs kicking wildly as he laughed half-madly.

"No, you don't." Fret said, not knowing why they were laughing so hard. Nuts were nice...When the weasel was left only chuckling occasionally he supplied the reason.

"A few seasons ago, when I was a dibbun, a squirrel maid with twelve kids and no eyes thought I was one of hers-until she tried to shove an acorn down my throat. I put up a good fight and all, but in the end I had to swallow. I bet she would have kept me if her kids didn't point out how fluffy my tail wasn't! After that she kicked me outta a tree, lucky I landed on Grey really."

The squirrel maid sounded like Blind Agatha-who had once called him cute-before she learned that he was a ferret. After that she had whacked him on the head for 'lying'. Connington had covered his eyes while Constance dealt with the squirrel. Blind Agatha had since avoided their cottage.

"What about you tubby, tell him a funny story." The weasel chided, poking his friend in the belly.

"Er okay. Well I don't have any parents and stuff, but Sharpie's family took me in. His ma makes good soup-"

"I said funny! Make us laugh Grey, laugh!"

"Well once we tried to go fishing with my tail, coz he said it looked like a worm. It was a good idea I suppose, but the fishes weren't interested. Then an otter bit it and Sharpie dragged him onto land. I don't know who was more surprised really."

"Well that was progress." The weasel said, patting his friend on the back. "How old are you Fret?"

"Er ten seasons, roughly."

"Me too!" The rat said, grinning again.

"Ha, I'm ten and a half!" The weasel exclaimed.

"That's coz you've got your family to celebrate with you." The grey rat pointed out, sounding sad.

"My family celebrates your one too-remember that giant cheese tart we got off that mole!"

They both started laughing again.

"What about you Frettie? Who looks after you?" The weasel asked.

"Well I live in Redw-er wood. Redw-"

"You live in that cursed abbey?!" They exclaimed, though the rat had left out 'cursed'.

"No, nononono, that place is baaaaad news." Sharpe began, Grey nodding feverishly. "I mean, sure the food's good, but that place is full of woodlanders! There's a badger as well I heard! Do you know what badgers do to you when they're angry?"

"They go all crazy and rip out your bones and use your skull as a drinking cup!" Grey supplied, sounding worried just thinking about it.

"Exactly!" Hissed the weasel. "And it's haunted."

"Haunted?" Fret sniggered. "The badger makes us scrub dishes when she's angry, anyways she'd need a bigger cup than your skull. And now you're just trying to scare me."

Both looked dead serious. "That crazy mouse who built the place. Matinn or something, he still walks around the abbey, and lashes out on any and all verminfolk who enter. They say the sword he weilds burns any vermin who so much as touches the blade."

"You're better off coming with us." Grey supplied. "You can share our room even. We share everything, except for his dirk, that's his and-"

"I've lived in the abbey all my life, and I was never attacked by anyone...Called Martin." Everyone inside Redwall hated him, yet here he was, refusing to go with two strangers, who had in five minutes treated him better than almost everyone he had ever met. _How come rats are the vermin, when an otter tried to kill me for no reason and the rat's offering a place to sleep?_

"C'mon." Whined Grey Claw. "He'll let you use it from time to time, he lets me use it. And his ma makes good soup and she's really sweet and doting and I can get you a-"

"I have my own momma and I don't give a fig about whatever you can get me!" Fret snapped. Grey looked like he was about to cry.

"Now you've done it!" Sharpie hissed. "Look tubby it's okay, he didn't mean to snap at you. Right Frettie?"

"Right." Fret supplied, the weasel's glare was enough to kill, but the dirk was somewhat more threatening. "I didn't mean to snap it's just that-" _Everyone in Redwall hates me and I'm here snapping at relatively nice vermin. "It's been a long day. I should really be getting back right about_ now." He faked a yawn. "Nice meeting you two." And he scampered off, utterly confused as to why his feet were taking him back to the abbey.

"Well... To put it bluntly we'll never see him again." Sharpie summarised. "Nononono don't cry Grey. It's okay. Ghosts can't get to us because they can't swim."

"Er, neither can you." Grey added.

"I was comforting you, you fat oaf." The weasel murmured

* * *

 _Footnote: Haha, I love vermin. Who doesn't? You'll be seeing plenty more of Grey and Sharpie and more vermin, and Skipper's backstory of course!. Though introducing them takes a while I think these characters are almost as important as Fret himself.. Still I think this relatively happy chapter can stop the angst in it's tracks!_


	5. The Return Home

_"I am hers and she is mine." Said one tall mouse, thick and muscled._

 _"I am his and he is mine." Replied another, just as tall._

 _Then they spoke in unison. "From this day, till the end of my days."_

 _Then as the two mice sealed their love with a kiss, the cheering and the music broke out. The drums were beaten, horns were sounded and everybeast was stomping their feet and clapping paws._

 _Connington smiled as hard as he could-ignoring the constant pang in his chest. He had to be happy for them. Rowland was his best friend and Constance... Was like a sister. The Skipper gave him a hard slap on the back._

 _"Cheer up Jon! Your day will come soon." He dropped his voice to a whisper. "Agatha's been eyeing you the whole time."_

 _"I'm fine Skip... Just worried is all... Mad-Eye Marik still had half his horde-"_

 _"Aye and a javelin through the rear- I should know, I put it there meself." He roared with laughter, patted his friend on the back again and went to join some otter girls._

 _But Connington was not relieved. All the Skipper had done was infuriate the ferret. Constance was tripping around as she danced with Rowland... She had never been a good dancer... And Rowland, he looked drunk with love, and was constantly stepping on somebeast's tail. If only he could be happy too..._

* * *

"He was my friend too Skip! Or are you forgetting that?" Thoughts of Rowland hurt him more than any blade ever could.

"You know what they did to him! To Constance's babes! Your neices! Your nephews! How could you?"

"Fret had nothing to do with that!"

"His kind did! All of his ilk! They butchered them all! Do you remember?!"

Abbot Martin was beginning to feel threatened in the warriorbeasts' presence. He was no fighter himself, and the emotions were running so high it was a wonder the two weren't going for the kill already.

"I remember everything! And I don't remember Fret having anything to do with it!"

"I only recognized him for his tail. Bent a long time ago when he was a dibbun. And I saw that ferret poke so many holes in little Chesters..." The otter took a deep breath. "They smashed Fleece into a tree and threw his wailing body into the river. They'd have killed Constance too if they could!"

"That was gruesome Skipper-gruesome and unforgivable. But Connington was correct when he said that Fret was not one of them. He might have not been born even."

 _He had been a babe back then... A little thing, alone and helpless. Of course Constance had taken him in and raised her as her own, her family did the same with me._

The air was tense from the silence as the Skipper thought this over.

"Tell your varmint I'm sorry Jon." The otter growled. "He shouldn't have been born one of them. But he could hardly decide that. I overreacted is all... But you know our history Connington. Don't go bringing him here again!"

Jon nodded, eager to return to the abbey. "No worries old friend."

"But you be watchful of 'Im. Maybe he ain't a varmint yet-but if you ain't careful he'll be one within the season. He's got bad blood in his veins."

"I'm aware of your thoughts Skipper." Connington said frowning. "And yours Abbot. But I stand by what I said- Fret is a good lad."

The otter then shook his head, forcing a chuckle. "It's been a while since we disagreed on anything, eh?"

Connington too managed a grin. "Too long."

Constance was pacing her cottage.

She had found Fret mewling like a newborn. He had been alone and helpless, and she had found her heart rushing out to him. Alone and cold and hungry and helpless. Blood ran down the wall, and a corpse lay on the ground. She had killed a dozen fighters to get this far, but she could not bring herself to bring her axe down on the child-ferret or not. Instead, she had pressed him against her cold armour, and rocked him backwards and forwards, until the wailing and whimpering stopped and he was fast asleep. Then when they had found her in the morning, still clutching the frightened babe she had announced that he was hers. The large mouse had to endure cries of outrage and gasps filled with shock. But no amount of sense would make her let go of the babe. She had been reminded, half-a-hundred times, of Veil Sixclaw, who's own mother had called him 'evil' after all was said and done. Constance had replied with a 'bugger Byrony, and his name is _Fret_ \- not Veil!' For nine seasons she had watched him crawl and waddle and walk. She had seen him cry, made him laugh and recieved more of his snapping than anybeast.

She had lost three babes... Three beautiful babes, before fate had handed her Fret. She had lost three and couldn't bear to loose a fourth. That was the root cause of her pacing.

What if things didn't go well? The Skipper had loved her like a sister, yet had hated vermin of any kind with a passion. And vermin or not-Fret was a ferret. Would the Skipper mistreat him? Would he jump to conclusions? Surely if Jon explained everything properly... Yet Mossflower Woods were huge, and certainly large enough to get lost in. Then the door opened and Fret walked in, looking as worried to see her as she was relieved to see him.

Fret almost cursed his luck. He had wanted to sneak into his room quietly, so as not to alert her of his arrival. Naturally she was there already.

"H-hi momma."

"Oh Fret, you're back already!" She wrapped him in a hug before he knew what was happening. He recoiled from the movement inwardly, but was also glad to be safely home again. "How was the trip?"

The question pressed into him like a hot iron rod, and out of instinct Fret responded. "It was great!"

Constance didn't fully believe his words, but in all honesty she was glad for the reassurance-forced or otherwise.

* * *

 _Footnote: Thus ends this really long prologue XD I've introduced all the main characters and can now get on with the plot proper :)_


	6. The Not-So-Great Redwall Feast

The first snows were a soggy thing, and made the damp soil muddy. Winter was the season Fret hated most. Since food was scarce and snows made it hard to travel everybeast flocked to the Abbey. The cottages were emptied and everybeast lived within. That meant that for an entire season he had to endure everyone's near constant gaze. And that wasn't the worst. The Guosim shrews turned up more often than not, and many had given him queer looks. One had even asked loudly who had painted a poor mouse black and white? The jest had fallen flat. The otters never turned up, thankfully. They travelled further south where it was warmer. Badgers, hedgepigs, moles and their annoying accents. And there was no way to avoid any of them. Some like Blind Agatha stayed well away from him, others approached cautiously, but rarely stayed longer than it took for him to snap at something they had said. The abbeybeasts who lived with him tried particularly hard to keep him out of the way, and for that he was glad, but with so many mouths to feed it was hard to focus on one ferret. Connington was swarmed away by others who fancied themselves warriors and Constance was busy with cooking, and cleaning. She was also swarmed away by other mice and mothers. But there were no vermin to swarm him away. It got even worst when the ground hardened into ice and the snow set. And it was on one such day, on the morning of the Great Feast of Winter, that Fret's story truly began.

He was idly flicking the toy, when a great pile of snow fell on top of him. This was followed with laughter. His head broke free of the snow to glare at the usual cast. Matiya clambered down a tree clad in white, and grinned as he admired his work.

"You make a great snowbeast Fret." Momchillo commented, grinning at his own wit.

"Very clever." Fret snapped, climbing out of the snow and shaking himself free, before digging a paw in to retrieve the yo-yo. Then a ball of snow caught him on the side of the head.

"Let us do battle vermin fiend!" The mouse shrieked, Fret threw a pawful of snow into his open mouth.

"No thanks." The ferret responded.

"Aw, why the long face? Cheer up for once matey and you might even enjoy yourself!" Matiya poked him on the nose.

"I don't find getting frozen very enjoyable." And he brushed off the squirrel's paw.

"You'd only be frozen till the feast." Grollo pointed out, throwing a snowball that was aimed for Fret at Matiya. "My dad made pies and soups and cheeses-"

"Your dad is the cook." Fret snapped. "I know he cooks."

"What's that noise?" Momchillo asked, his ears twisting around.

"Your voice." Fret responded dryly. But then he heard it too. It was... Music?

"Dad got friendly with the beer again." Momchillo sighed.

"Those aren't any abbeybeasts. They're the-"

And then Fret could hear the words playing out clearly as the singers approached the doors.

"We're the long patrol." Came the loudest voice, followed by a chorus of roughly twenty voices.

"The Long Patrol, the Long Patrol! Merry old souls, we're the Long Patrol, come one come all, welcome to Redwall. Be ye thin and tall or fat and small, we're the Long Patrol! We serve till we're dead and cold, the wise and old, the young and bold, we're the Long Patrol!"

The doors opened wide as twenty hares marched through, their movements in perfect coordination with the tune.

Matiya stared at them almost worshipfully. "The Long Patrol!" He squealed, overcome with excitement.

Fret was somewhat less excited, but used the opportunity to sneak away from the trio. His last encounter with any famed vermin-fighters was still fresh in his mind. The Skipper almost ran him through with a spear. He shuddered. That had been traumatic. Still the trip had been decent in the end. He had told nobeast about the weasel or the rat, however, they would just come up with their own endings, the way they always did.

He passed Martin's fabled sword and the tapestry. He paused to eye it with disdain. Martin the Warrior, leaning on his blade while a score of vermin fled before him. He snorted. Whoever had made it left out Martin's army, and the dead bodies of both. Somehow he felt that that many vermin would have just flattened the mouse.

"I suppose your magic sword saved your tail." If Fret had a magic sword the first thing he'd do was slice up Matiya's wooden one. But the only magic sword was Martin's and the abbey had had no warrior for generations, and had never had a vermin for one either... Ever. He was almost tempted to take it, to try and spin it around, to prove that he wasn't a vermin... That he was a-

"Ferret." He snarled into his reflection in the sword. "I am that is." The words inscribed on the blade certainly felt different than they must have to Mathias, when the mouse had beaten Cluny the Scourge and saved Redwall. Fret saw them as another cold reminder, forged a thousand seasons past- that he could never be one of them.

"You're just a dead mouse." Fret spat at the still-smiling warrior.

"We're all dead meat in the end. Even if we had a pretty blade."

Fret leapt a foot in the air at the sudden intrusion. The Badgermum was one of the few whose meer presence made him mumble a lot more than snap. "Oh, Miss, I-I didn't mean anything, I was just er-daydreaming is all." He was reminded horribly of the bloodwrath, how some warriors went mad in battle and tore any in their path.

"I am that is." She murmured. "Enjoy the feast." And with that she dismissed him, and he wasted no time leaving. Before he shoved it to the back of his mind he couldn't help thinking that Fret sounded somewhat like ferret.

With nothing better to do, Fret climbed up to the walls, and found himself staring out into space. The land looked neater, he decided, when it was carpetted in snow.

But no neat backdrop could crush his inner turmoil. Everything had gone back to normal after the otter's visit. The back of the class in History, falling asleep at the endless tales of some abbeybeast's great deeds. Abbot Martin was softer, that much was true, but that didn't stop him from giving Fret the harder questions. The only difference was that the mouse encouraged him to study harder, and even helped out from time to time. But no matter what Abbot Martin tried Fret was heavily reminded that he didn't fit in.

One ferret, scores of mice, shrews, squirrels... And he was the only ferret. He was different, too different. Yet what was so different about him that nobeast wanted anything to do with him? What was the wall between him and everybeast? His snapping? His laziness? He shook his head clear, he was a ferret...he just had to accept that. And after him... The rest of the abbey.

* * *

It was dark, and snow covered Mossflower Woods as Sharpfur leaned against a tree, waiting for his friend. He didn't have to wait for very long, as the rat fell on him a moment later, sniffing the air with his madly-twitching nose.

"Do you smell that?" The rat asked.

"All I smell is you." The weasel responded, wriggling loose of his companion's girth.

"It's like... Vittles!" The rat grinned so wide you could count his teeth. Greyclaw fell on all fours, his nose leading the way.

"It better be!" Sharpie snapped, following anyways.

* * *

The feast had separated him from Fret and Constance most wonderfully. Constance was dining with the ladies, laughing at their jokes and passing dishes around. Connington was seated opposite the Log-a-log and the Long Patrol. Fret he could not see, and hoped dearly that he was behaving and being treated properly in turn.

"And how come you ain't the abbey warrior Connie?" The grizzled, one eyed hare looked a monster, yet was more mannered then half. "A magic sword- someone ought to swing it, wot."

Connington smiled sadly. "Alas, I prefer shorter swords, and ones that aren't magic. Ghosts are frightening."

The hares hooted at this and banged the table. The shrew looked disappointed.

"Tis too large for a shrew matey, and too small for any these hares. You'd best start swinging it soon."

"In times of peace the abbey needs no warrior." The small mouse dismissed, in truth guilt kept the sword out of reach... Forever out of reach.

"Peace, eh? I don't want to frighten you mouse, but I'm afraid peace won't last long. I've heard that vermin are banding together in great numbers, flocking to the lands of Always Winter. We might well have a fight on our paws before next snow!"

"Good! I haven't had a good fight in years!" The one eyed hare joked, then pointed at the hole in his head. "I still need to repay the favour."

The small mouse felt his stomach churn, and even as the talk turned elsewhere he couldn't help but worry. If war with vermin was imminent, what became of the vermin within Redwall?

* * *

"I don't think we should be here." Grey gulped as he stood in the shadow of the abbey's red walls.

"Nonsense! Ghosts can't harm us coz we're not grownups yet, anyhow we have my dirk."

Grey sighed with relief.

"Now, to vittles and beyond! Grey, sniff it out!" And the weasel tossed his dirk into the air, watching the blade glint in the darkness.

* * *

It was as Grollo had promised. Every table was piled with so much food it was a wonder they didn't break. And yet Fret was not hungry. He sat, slumped and bored out of his wits, next to him was a little shrew of the Guosim, who seemed positively frightened of him. Opposite him, positively pigging out behind a mountain of food, was Grollo. Momchillo was on his other side, laughing uproariously at a young hare sharing there table.

"For the night is dark and full of turnips!" He yelled, stabbing into a turnip with his fork. "We must pray for some carrots!" And he wiggled his long ears. Everyone except Fret laughed. "So fellow youngsters, when we are all as big as we can be, what do we desire? What shall we use ourselves as? A dibbun must plan ahead, no?"

"I'm going to be the greatest abbey warrior ever!" Matiya exclaimed, stabbing a turnip himself.

"I'll just cook stuff." Grollo shrugged, before diving back into his dinner.

"He who leaves his destiny undecided is the wisest of them all." Momchillo tried to quote something Abbot Martin had once told them.

"I'm going to be the Log-a-log!" The shrew squeaked.

"And what about you?" It took the ferret a while to realize he was the one being spoken to.

"I'm going to sleep." He snapped instinctively. Had the hare been implying something?

"Fret here is the number one spy in the abbey." Momchillo said seriously.

"Aye, you'd think he's a mouse more often than not." The table laughed at what he thought was a pathetic excuse for a joke. Deciding that he could distract himself with food he reached for a baked apple as big as him. Only for the hare to snatch it away and start juggling it along with a turnip and a carrot. He was also singing, though so horrendously Fret did not hear the words.

"Are you actually a ferret or are you an otter painted like one? You know, like the Mask." The shrew asked innocently.

Fret felt an eye twitch in annoyance. "I'm a ferret."

"You see, an impressive spy. You never know what he is. I swore yesterday he was a rat." Matiya joked.

Fret reached for a bowl of soup. Just as the turnip fell inside, throwing the contents of the bowl over Fret and the shrew. The Guosim boy shrieked with laughter and licked the his fur. Fret though, was scowling.

"You did that on purpose." The ferret accused.

"I did not!" Scoffed the hare. "Besides, you look better now."

"Aye and much tastier." Matiya added.

The table laughed once more, but Fret was not amused. He left the table after that, leaving a trail of creamy soup behind him. He heard laughter, and was sure it was directed at him. He left the hall, hot and angry.

* * *

Grey had sniffed out a miniature dent in the wall, and had dug in, sniffing madly, leaving Sharpfur to toss his blade into the air as he waited for the vittles to show up.

* * *

The snow was cleared to form a path towards the wall. It was dark and cold, but Fret liked it better than the Hall and all the laughter. He was just a joke, as usual. The joke, the vermin. He kicked at a pile of snow and sat on the edge of the wall. It was cold and freezing and he was sure the soup was freezing over him. He should probably be getting back... He was about to leave when he spotted a bright glint in the moonlight. He leant forwards, and almost slipped over the edge.

"Careful Fret." Came Matiya's voice, as the squirrel caught him by the back of his habit and pulled him back. "You ought to be more careful, you almost fell right off."

"I didn't!" Fret snapped automatically. He shivered and pulled himself free of Matiya's grip, turning to leave.

"Why are you always in such a bad mood?" The squirrel shot back as Fret turned to leave. "Was it something I said?"

Fret paused. Did this squirrel honestly have no idea what he put him through? No! He was just pretending! "It was a lot of things you've _done_!" Fret snapped.

"A couple of jokes? Pshaw, what's wrong with you? Learn to laugh a little. Tibbers got as much soup on him as you did, and he didn't run off crying about it."

"I wasn't crying. And he doesn't have to deal with stuff like this every day!"

"Stuff like what?"

"Like you! Like being vermin! Like being a liar! You've lied so many times to get me in trouble, but _I'm_ the liar. Nobeast's as hated as me and you're asking what I go through?" Fret exploded, the emotions he had surpressed since the trip with the otters came boiling to the surface.

"Hated?" The squirrel looked confused. "Nobeast hates you." The squirrel's response came to him like slap to the face.

"The Skipper tried to run me through! You and Momchillo and Grollo hate me just for existing!"

"Hate you? We don't hate y-"

"Liar! Liar liar liar liar liar!" Fret yelled, his voice echoing in the darkness.

"Fret..."

"Go back to your feast." Fret finished, in a quieter voice, spinning on his heel and walking away.

Matiya stood there, the same confusion painted on his face.

Fret was seething as all the memories came rushing into him. He was Slagar the Cruel and Cluny the Scourge. They didn't hate him? He almost laughed out loud. Nobeast loved him. Where was Constance? Where was Connington? Love! Now he did laugh. They hated him, why did everyone go out of their way to pretend they didn't? Something else glinted in the darkness, and he hated it. If not for that stupid glint he wouldn't have exploded.

His momma loved him. Connington liked him. But he was just too different for all the rest. The hare's question rung through his mind... What would he do when he was older?

"I'll be a ferret." He snarled, peaking over the wall in search of the maddening glint. Then he slipped on an icy ridge, and fell right off, his habit tore against a parparet and, arms flailing madly, he screamed into the cold, empty night.

* * *

As tempting as it was to follow the sound of music, Grey knew better. Where there was music there was people, and although the vittles' smelled the strongest from a grand hall, he followed another scent, down a flight of stairs, past a shiny sword and a fancy tapestry, and into a smoking hot kitchen. His jaw fell slack at the sight of all the food. He licked his chops, rubbed his paws, and jumped right in.

* * *

Matiya walked back into the feast room feeling a lot less jovial.

"He's not sore about the soup is he?" The hare asked, sounding somewhat guilty.

"No... He just needs... To think." The ferret's face was yelling into his own. Was he lying? He had never thought much about Fret, aside from him being queer, and snappy... But hate was putting it strongly. They weren't mates exactly, but Fret had grown up with them. They couldn't hate him. And they didn't.

"Nevertheless I shall go apologise!" The hare exclaimed. "He's in the cellar?"

"The wall."

"Thought so!" And the hare skipped off.

"Is he really a ferret in Redwall?" The shrew called Tibbers asked. "Aren't they mostly rotten."

"I've never met another ferret." Momchillo pointed out. "But Fret's just grumpy, not rotten."

"Normally he eats a lot." Grollo commented. "But he's a bit messy."

"He's just as rotten as you are shrew." Momchillo summarised. "Though somewhat less apetizing."

And again they laughed.

* * *

"Ferret!" The hare whistled loudly. "Here ferrety ferrety Frettie! Aw, come on matey, don't be a spoilsport! It was my mistake. I swear you may soak me in any dish you like-so long as it's not that otterly spicy one. Here ferrety, ferrety, Frettie!" But nobeast replied. He hopped around the wall, and found no hair nor hide of him.

* * *

"Constance dear, there's some pie down in the kitchens. Could you get them for me?"

Glad for an excuse to leave the hall, she nodded. The music was pounding her ears wildly, and she had already stuffed herself silly. Talking was entertaining and all, but she had to surpress a yawn one too many times. She hoped Fret was alright, and would have checked on him, but found no way to do so without leading him to some form of humiliation. She passed the sword of Martin the Warrior and the tapestry and smiled. The mouse's spirit guided them all.

She proceeded further down to the kitchens and heard a clatter as something fell to the floor. Probably the cook, that hedgepig was always a clumsy one.

"Excuse me, Brother-" But she found herself staring...not at any cook, but at a head, poking out of a half-eaten pie.

The rat gulped the pie. "Hullo." He said nervously, waving a paw at her.

The eyes... The tail... She placed a paw over her heart, and stumbled backwards, falling on her back with a loud clatter.

Grey Claw gulped, and heard doors opening and closing. "Constance! Do you have that pie?"

And he raced away, barging out the other door.

"Constance?" Rosebrush, Momchillo's mother, a brown mouse, poked her head from the door, and gasped at the sight. "Somebeast help! Something's happened to her!"


	7. The Quest Begins

All Matiya could feel was a hard lump in his stomach. Everywhere he looked he could see Fret on the wall, yelling wildly. Did I hate him? I didn't hate him... I never did... I don't.

The air around the abbey was solemn and serious. Mother Constance was broken. She was pale, quiet and frozen. She didn't move, nor did she speak. Her heart was weak they said, in worried voices. Brother Jon had gone mad, it seemed. He had stayed by Constance's side constantly, until someone had brought him news of Fret's absence. Then he had run around the abbey like a madbeast, as if in a panic, searching for his nephew. He had circled the walls so often that Blind Agatha had brought him meals up there, not that he ate much. All they had found of Fret was a piece of his habit. No body, no prints, no scent. The snow had covered the last two, but they had dug for the first. Matiya wondered whether or not that was a good thing. Then the small mouse had cracked like an egg, and lost himself in despair, after having searched Mossflower so thoroughly his paw-prints could be seen in every inch of snow. He ate nothing for a while, and had grown sick and cold. Then the badgermum had physically forced him to eat something.

Tibbers the shrew was practicing with Jack-is-Lucky, the hare. His thin rapier was faster than the hare's axe, but packed less of a punch, and the hare had made him surrender several times over. Momchillo and Grollo watched with solemn faces, though Momchillo had the ghost of a grin on his face. Then again he hadn't heard Fret that night. None of them had. Jack-is-Lucky had hopped back into the hall, unable to find him. But then they had heard Rosebrush's cries and had come running. The Long Patrol had scouted the area in search of the culprit... But they had not found anyone there.

"Yield!" The hare demanded good-naturedly, his axe barely held above the shrew's chest.

Matiya had a wooden sword hanging from a scabbard at his side. What would Martin have done? Or any other warrior in his position? They would have convinced Fret that they didn't hate him. They'd have some way to tell him the truth. All he had done was look stupid. But if they had failed, like him... They'd have found Fret by now. Then Matiya grinned as the guilt left him. He would bring the ferret home if it killed him! Like a true hero!

Fret realized three things before he woke up. One, his head was sore and throbbing. Two, he was on a somewhat soft floor. Three, Grey was sniffing something.

"What are you doing here?" Fret snapped, sitting up and making his head spin like a toy.

"Hullo Frettie!" The rat responded, good-naturedly, waving at him.

"What are you doing here? Who let you in? What about the ghost?" He was in a dimly lit room, lying on a carpet of silk.

"This isn't your bloody abbey!" The weasel said, shrieking with laughter at his confusion.

"B-but-" It made no sense. One moment there was the feast and then Matiya had caught him at the wall and then he had slipped on something cold, and fell off the abbey.

"You fell down the abbey, almost flattened me, then me and Grey took you back home." Sharpie explained, catching his dirk as it fell through the air.

"What were you doing at Redwall?"

"Vittles!" Grey exclaimed, chewing on a slab of cheese he had been sniffing a moment ago.

Disorientated as he was Fret didn't know how to react to that.

"You were meant to bring some to me too you greedy lump!" Sharpfur snapped, making Grey look sheepish.

"I told you, a mouse walked in and fell down. Then somebeast was coming and I ran away! It wasn't like I ate... Much."

"Grey, you ate enough food to last me the whole of winter! And you licked all the soup off of him!"

"I offered to let you have some." Grey pointed out, staring at his feetpaws in shame.

"I wasn't going to lick soup off a dead body!"

Fret tuned them out, his head still turbulent and dizzy.

"Do your feetpaw work?" Grey asked him suddenly.

"I guess..." He tried to get up, and a black spot covered his vision, but after a while his eyes readjusted and aside from the constant throb of his brain he felt no pain. "Where am I?" Fret asked, clenching and unclenching his claws to bring some sense of feeling back into them.

"Mossflower Woods. Do you want to see our camp?" Grey offered.

"Camp? There's more of you?"

Sharpfur giggled. "Welcome matey, to the humble camp of the Honest Bunch!"

* * *

"It's cold." Hawthorn complained, as she trailed behind the band, shivering madly.

"Aye, it's winter." Jack-is-Lucky replied, not noticing the underlying tone of a whine.

But the albino vole would not be disuaided. She had heard the boy's mad rush to go in search of Fret and had in turn followed them out to attempt to stop them from getting lost. "Brother Jon failed to find him, what chance do we have?"

"Your mouse went alone. In the Guosim we know that we must work together."

"Fret's our... Neighbour." Grollo summarised awkwardly. "We can't abandon him."

"What he said." Momchillo added, with a cheeky grin, before giving a loud, fake sigh. "Hawthorn, my beautiful queen. Do not fear, when we have spotted his black and white hide we will drag him back to Redwall-and all before supper!"

"Oi thunk he moight hab run awaywards." The mole, Roseheart, who was her constant companion, suggested.

That was what Matiya feared most of all. That Fret had ran off into the night, hating them all. What if some monster had come out of nowhere and made the ferret his dinner? What if he had sworn vengeance on the abbey and had ran off to make his horde? No...That...wasn't Fret. He wasn't evil. He couldn't be evil. The group was quiet, save for the crunching of the snow.

"Why can't you just accept he might be dead?" She sighed in frustration. She had never liked Fret. He smelled funny and was rude and scary. And in the tales of old his kind attacked Redwall ever-so-often.

Matiya paused and looked at her with deep-rooted confusion. "Do you hate him?"

"Hate? No, that's a bit much..." Ladies never hated anyone, not unless their family had been harmed. "But he's not worth risking our lives for!"

"Anybeast is worth risking your life for my fair lady." Jack-is-Lucky finished. To which the other boys said 'aye'.

"Noit Frettie." The molemaid bristled, shivering.

"''Aye!' Mes amigos, bonjour and welcome to Mossflower!" The children turned to the new, accented voice.

It belonged to a large and slender stoat, pale white fur glittered and red eyes glinted with amusement. From a belt hung a rapier, two daggers and one short, straight sword. He was accompanied by a shorter, chubby and pouchy-faced pine marten who had no weapons on his own belt.

"Ah mates, how nice of you to come along! We're looking for a friend of ours. Black and white fur, about yay-high, sort of on the snappy side?"

"Friend or foe? What is a hare wanting with a ferret?" The stoat asked, leaning against a tree.

"How do you know he's a ferret?" Matiya asked, fear prickling down his spine as he glanced repeatedly at the silent marten.

"A squirrel sees things his companions do not. Bravo, mais you must permit me to tell you half the truth. Your amigo dropped down for a visit."

"You kidnapped him." Momchillo gasped.

"Oh, non non, monsieur if it weren't for us your ferret would be a frozen corpse. We saved his life, and now we may even take you to him!" The Long Patrol's teachings kicked in, and noticed the underlying threat.

"Ho-ho mate, if you think we'll come quietly then I'm sorry to have to be so blunt, wot. But no hare of the Long Patrol will be taken by the likes of you." Jack-is-Lucky freed his axe, Tibbers drew his rapier and Matiya, feeling slightly abashed, drew his wooden sword. "Give us our companion, friend, neighbour and you will be left with your lives."

"Long Patrol? Hum hum, do you know a monsieur with one eye? He owes me a few fingers, you see." And he held up, half his paw was missing, and he had two claws and his one thumbclaw left.

"Why, he's my _father_ matey!" The hare roared as he dived forwards. Tibbers was just as quick on his feetpaws and dived forwards, rapier pointed at the stoat's chest.

The white-furred fiend lazily swerved away from the axe-swing that would have split his skull open, and parried the shrew's blade with his own rapier. His rapier's flat blade rapped the hare's knuckles, and his grip on the axe weakened slightly. Then he deftly parried another swing from the little shrew and sparks flew. He drew his straight sword, and parried both weapons with his own pair. Then the flat of the sword and rapier dealt a stunning blow to the hare's skull, making his head ring like a bell. Then Tibbers was thrown onto his back, and in a spray of red, with a cry of pain, the rapier pinned him to the ground through the shoulder.

Hawthorn screamed in terror, and the molemaid fainted clear away. The stoat grinned widely.

"Tsk, tsk I thought the Long Patrol was better than this." Then he drew the rapier free and spun both blades in a circle around him.

Matiya ran at him, swinging his wooden sword madly around him. The stoat sliced the wood clean in two and pressed the rapier's point against the squirrel's throat.

"Nobeast moves!" He ordered. "Or are you wishing for more spilled blood? Deathglare, get the rope out."

The silent pine marten withdrew a rope.

* * *

"So you just do whatever you want?" Fret asked, perplexed by the freedom his companions had. T

The camp was small-ish, with twenty patchwork homes. There were holes in the trees, with blankets draped over the entrance. Overturned boats made strange sights, and one pine marten, whom Grey had described as 'scarier than Hellgates' lived in a newly made home of piled snow. They were all vermin here. An elderly pine marten called Sick-eyes who was the resident seer, and so wrinkled and old she looked akin to a folded paper. Gulash, a huge rat that had chased all three of them after Sharpfur had hurled a snowball at his back. Sickletail who was the weasel's mother, and had tried to make Fret eat an extra portion of food. Sharpfur had three elder and four younger siblings, the last one was just a babe, the others mere dibbuns. But older than him he had Heartrip, Redtail and Blizzard, vicious, argumentative and just as snappy as Fret. There was Deathglare, the seer's cousin, whom Grey had warned him about. He never spoke, but his pouchy face could not hide his eyes, which made you shiver just to look at them. Then there was Threeclaw, the blade master, who Sharpfur had insisted could turn anything into a weapon.

Here he was everybeast's 'mate', and when somebeast said something mean it was considered weak to not snap back with your own well-chosen insult. Here, Fret fit right in. Nobeast cared what he smelled like or what Mattimeo's son's uncle's nephew was called. Nobeast cared that he was a ferret. Yet he knew, deep down, that he couldn't stay. Connington and Constance would be worried sick about him, and he couldn't just leave them. Yet every time he thought of the abbey, he couldn't help but feel a twist of his innards. If only Redwall treated him like vermin did...

"Well, I suppose so, so long as we stay away from the otters, the shrews, the abbey and come back alive than yes, we do what we want." Grey was different though. To Fret at least, the chubby rat was different. He didn't snap, he didn't argue, he was soft-hearted and sweet, and scared to death of being alone.

 _"Ma found him in the river. He was just a dibbun, trying to tread water and ma took him in. I reckon his parents dumped him off some boat. First while he didn't even sleep at night, too scared we just left him behind. That's why he started sharing my room."_ Sharpfur had explained.

Indeed the rat followed the weasel everywhere. No matter how bitter, rude or snappy he could be, Grey did as he was bid, sometimes wrongly, sometimes with uncertainty, but he did it all anyways.

Fret rubbed at his temple, trying to think of a subtle way to return to the abbey. The largest issue he was faced with was the abbeybeast's reactions. What was he meant to tell them? That he had been nursed back to normal and saved from a snowy burial by vermin? They hated him enough as it was, and would probably throw him out if they heard it put that way. So he ought to lie, right? But what lie? What could satisfy the badgermum?

"So, are you sharing our room, or do we have to make one for you?" The sudden question twisted a knife in his gut. How was he meant to break the news to simple-hearted, simple-minded Grey Claw? Mayhaps he ought to be blunt...

"I-I can't stay Grey." He explained slowly, desperate not to snap at him.

"Why not?" Sharpfur demanded. The little weasel had a habit of demanding things. "Your precious abbey threw you off the wall. Listen to me mate, that ghost got you I swear it. If ye go back then yer a deadbeast."

"And why would you care?" Fret snapped loudly, he had not meant to at first-but he had had to protect himself from the weasel's tone.

"Because Grey here doesn't want to see your hide hanging for the birds!" The weasel retorted.

"They're not going to kill me. Anyhow you can't stop me leaving!"

Grey sat in the snow, sniffing loudly. And Fret felt a mix of guilt and anger. Why was the rat so hurt by the one fact. They barely knew each other.

"Blood runs thicker than water, ferret." Sharpfur scowled, hovering protectively over the rat. "Remember that."

"What does that mean?" Fret snapped. Why was such a big deal being made about all this? He had a family in Redwall, even if he had nothing else.

Before Sharpie could open his mouth to respond a pair of vermin approached. A brown, chubby pine marten with a pouchy face made Fret shiver. The other vermin was a white stoat with red eyes, humming a tune.

And tied by their paws to a rope were the abbey young'uns, wearing confused and frightened expressions. Matiya looked directly at him with visible pain and a look of betrayal.

"Haha, was I not telling you we'd bring you to your amigo?" The stoat asked.

Matiya slipped free of the rope around his paws and dived for Fret. The squirrel and the ferret rolled through the snow. Matiya ended up on top, a fist crashing down into his face. Each punch was punctuated by an angry yell. "Traitor! You evil! Lying! Son of a-"

Deathglare freed Fret from the squirrel's wrath, and threw Matiya to the ground, where Sharpfur pointed a dirk at his throat. The ferret was a mess. His face was dark and blotchy, a tooth had been knocked free and blood was flowing freely from his nose. Grey Claw helped him up timidly. And Fret stumbled on his feet, lost completely in all thoughts, though there was one that swam near the surface of his mind.

He couldn"'t go back to Redwall...


	8. Everything Goes Wrong

"We're the Honest Bunch, A crew, not a horde! Welcome aboard! Honesty's not our best policy, but we'll stand beside ye! It's what we do! So join us, why don't ye? It's fun and games til someone kills ye! Come on matey, take a swig, take a swing and fall right in!"

Despite the band of vermin's loud, cheerful song, Fret could only feel a pressure in his chest that would not leave. As if a giant was holding him tight and would not let go.

He couldn't return to Redwall. If he returned and lied about not seeing anyone, and if anybeast even believed that, then sombeast would go searching for their young. Then if they were never found their ghosts would haunt him till his dying day. And even worse, if they were found and it was known that he had seen them... Then he was vermin and at best he would spend his days rotting in some dark tower. And if he stayed with the vermin? Then he would become vermin in turn. The last possibility was to leave and somehow take the others with him. But then what? Constance would call him a hero, Connington too maybe, but everybeast else would think he had just gotten cold feet. And what if the Guosim wanted to avenge the little shrew's wounded shoulder? Then they would descend with all their force on the vermin camp.

A grizzly image flew into his mind, of Greyclaw, gurgling blood as a rapier's handle stuck out of his throat. Fret felt himself turning green. He couldn't do that. Not to the vermin who had treated him like a friend. Another image flew into his mind. Matiya was dying from an axe buried in his skull, yelling 'traitor' at his face. He had to choose between his kin and his kind. His kin had never accepted him, his kind had, yet he had grown up with his kin, hating them, and loved the kind he had met this morning. It should have been an easy choice, but he couldn't bare to make it. If he chose kin then he would go back to being hated, and if he chose kind, then his kin had been right all along and he was just another vermin who had stolen their children. Slagar the Cruel indeed...

Yet he had to do something. And it was that knowledge that kept him so miserable. Why did he have to be the one with the difficult choice?

"Ye look miserable."

Fret turned and snapped at the one who spoke to him. "I'm freezing my tail off! Go away and let me be miserable!"

"Do ye want a hankie? Are ye gonna cry?" The other ferret mocked. She was taller than him, and better dressed, with a rapier hanging from her belt.

"No! I just need a fire is-"

"You are a horrible little liar. You want to go back to yer abbey, but yer scared they won't want ye."

It was as if she had read his mind. "No! No I hate the abbey!" It was only half a lie, the abbey meant Constance...and he loved his momma.

"If ye go back without the dibbuns, they find us, if ye come back with the dibbuns then my boys wasted their time, and what if the shrew get prickly about a shoulder cut? They blame you, don't they?"

"Leave me alone!" Fret snapped. The thoughts were bad enough in his head, to hear them thrown at him aloud was utterly painful.

"I do have a hankie if ye need it." She laughed. "I'm sure dem abbeybeast's treated you all fine and swell. Mayhaps I should let you go back to them. Tonight, but for now coz, make yerself at home." She punched his shoulder. It hurt quite a bit, probably more than she had intended. "Now come on, join the fun."

* * *

Connington was broken. He had failed her. He loved her more than life itself, yet he had lost them all. All her babes... And mayhaps even her as well.

Jon Connington loved Constance more than he should have. His father had been sickly, and his mother long since passed, when her family had taken him in. They had raised him like their own. Bloomsworth and her crinkled eyes, Corgan with his loud stories. And Constance. Small and shy and young, he had wanted to hide away and blend into the backdrop. She had taken none of it, and had dragged him (sometimes literally) everywhere with her. She was much larger, and technically his sister, but he had loved her more than that. She was his constant support, had helped him become the warrior he had dreamed of becoming. And she had chosen Rowland.

Chosen was putting it strongly, after all she had never known that he loved her. And how could he tell her, when she had not been there to drag him into place? She had married Rowland and he had tried harder than ever to be happy for her. She loved him like a brother, yet she was more than a sister ever could be.

He had been jealous of Rowland since the first time they met. The mouse was everything he was not. Big and strong and loud, and determined to become the Abbey Warrior. Constance and him had done it all together, and he had been there the whole while. Rowland had never known of Connington's plight. How he had been wracked with shame. How could he envy his best friend?

He had failed to tell Constance how he felt. He had failed to squash the snake of envy from his heart. And he had failed to protect his nieces and nephews.

Jon, Rowland, Constance and the Skipper had destroyed a vermin horde led by the infamous Mad-Eye Marik. They had crushed his fleet at sea, with a single boat loaded with oil. Rowland had fired a single, flaming arrow at the boat, and the warlord had been forced to swim right at their waiting forces. Blood had reddened the water and the Skipper himself had sent the ferret packing in humiliation.

Then their had been the wedding, and a knot was tied between his best friend and the one he had to call sister. He had left, to travel, he had claimed, but truly to put himself away from them. They were happy together, the love was true and beautiful and he did not belong there, not when he could not bare to see them together.

But he had never been strong of will, and had returned, only to leave once more. That's when he had met them, his nephews and nieces. Blackgrin, who had loved to smile so much, Chester's, who had chewed on chestnuts, Skip, who had been half a fish in the water.

And they were all dead now. Mad-Eye Marik had returned and nobeast was spared. Chester's had died from half-a-hundred sword thrusts. Blackgrin had had his skull crushed in. And Skip had been thrown into the river. And Rowland had died, half his face had been torn off, and three arrows were buried in his back. But there was no other beast with a tail like that.

He had failed them all, and when he saw Constance, warm paws wrapped over the silent ferret-babe he had vowed to make it right. That Fret would grow old and happy. That Constance would not loose another child.

And he had failed. Constance, Rowland, Chesters, Blackgrin, Skip and now Fret. He had failed them all.

* * *

The little weasel circled the squirrel.

Matiya had yelled and shouted and called them all cowards and rogues, their songs had drowned out his yelling, for a while but eventually it had gotten on Sharpfur's nerves. The little weasel, backed by the entire crew, had volunteered to prove them not-cowardly, and had asked for single combat. Matiya had asked for raw steel, and to his surprise the weasel had agreed. Though after a while he had tried to backtrack. Tibbers was being healed by an animal that looked more like folded paper, and could have been considered warm, if not for the fact that one of her crew had injured him in the first place. Then a circle had been made, and the two circled.

The sword was straight and sharp, Threeclaw, the half-pawed stoat had lent it to him, the weasel's dirk was smaller, and jagged. The mustelid seemed fearful of the larger, better-honed blade. Indeed Matiya half-expected him to yield at any moment.

The weasel dived forwards anyway, just ducking a swing of the blade. A rat in the crowd was not looking, his paws over his eyes. Momchillo looked torn between hissing at the foebeast and cheering him on. The rest were scared out of their wits.

His smaller opponent parried the larger blade with his small one, and rolled away, snatching up a pile of snow and hitting the squirrel square in the face with it. Sharpfur seized the moment, and struck, his dirk freed the sword from the squirrel's grip, and a moment later Matiya was on his back, a blade pressed against his throat.

"Haha, coward my teeth! Chew on yer tail abbeybeast!" The weasel exclaimed. And the band of vermin laughed. Threeclaw retrieved his sword.

"I'm un poco disapointed. Non non, Redwall should be better than this!"

Sharpfur sheathed his dirk and hopped off the squirrel. Matiya got to his feet, hot with shame.

"You're a dirty great snake! Let us go! We haven't done anything to any of you!" Hawthorn yelled.

Sharpfur did not appreciate being called a 'dirty great snake' and rounded on the insolent vole. "Snake, eh? You ought to be careful, snakes eat pretty little maids ever-so-often." The vermin crowd laughed once more.

"You're so brave, taunting a lady tied by rope! Release me now, or I shall _make_ you a lady!"

'Oooooooooh', went the Honest Bunch.

"Ye think I'm scared of the likes of you?" He probably was in all honesty. But as the song said 'honesty was not his number one policy'.

"I _know_ you're terrified!" She shot at him.

'Oooooooooooh!' In all honesty it was hard to tell who was more of a child.

"Fine then. Your turn. Get a knitting needle ready, I'm going to shove it down your throat!"

The rope was sliced free and Hawthorn was given a spear. Sharpfur circled her again, and Grey closed his eyes once more. This time however Matiya was behind him. The burly squirrel caught him from behind in a chokehold, and Hawthorn swung for the rope tying her friends. Instead, she hit the big rat Gulash, square on the knee.

He was a simple minded creature with a huge temper. Yelling in pain he freed the spear and threw it aside. He drew an axe, and charged, roaring. The young'uns shrieked, Grollo was pleading, Momchillo was crying, and Hawthorn fell backwards. Threeclaw tried to step in but was sent flying away with a vicious backhand swing. Hawthorn was on her back, the rat's axe raised above his head, ready to be brought down. When Fret's metal toy slammed into his eye, threw his aim off and the axe hit the snow. The rat turned to the ferret, who gulped audibly. Sharpfur was purple in the face from lack of air, and Greyclaw was sobbing into his paws. Hawthorn watched, transfixed, as Gulash lunged for Fret, now frozen in fear. That would have been the end of him, had another, taller and prettier ferret , not barged the younger one aside. Gulash missed his lunge, and was pinned to the snow by several vermin.

"What do ye think yer doing, eh? We're in enough trouble without you slicing her head in two! Squirrel let go of that runt or I will split your head in two!" Matiya let Sharpfur go, the weasel fell to his knees, gasping for breath, shooting a look of deepest loathing at the squirrel. Deathglare was wrapping the rope around the squirrel. Fret found his feet, and stood up, dazed by yet another close encounter. Instinct had made him lash out, he had barely registered the toy, or the force he had used.

Sharpfur was leaning on Grey Claw, shame filling him at having been beaten by the abbeybeast. "It's lucky Fret fancies you princess, else I'd be skinning yer bloody hide."

The vole looked ready to strangle him, and gave Fret a look with enough venom to make Asmodeus jealous. "I don't need the help of vermin!"

The words hurt more than a hot knife. "I just saved your life!" Fret snapped.

"You hit your friend. I'm sure people like you do it all the time." She shot back.

"People like me?" He whimpered. He didn't know whether to yell or to cry. He would get more sympathy from them if he cried, but the Honest Crew would think him weak if he did that.

"Stinky, lying, no good traitorous scum! Redwall gave you food, clothes and a fire. It gave you an education, taught you everything you know now! And you repay them by leading their young'uns to your band of pirates!"

"So what?" Sharpfur was more confident now that he could breathe. "You treated him like vermin, well vermin's what you'll get, pretty-face."

"I wonder how many shades darker your face can go." Hawthorn whispered coldly. Then Threeclaw pulled her away.

"You is needing to learn to control your tongue one day, little miss, or else it'll lead you six feet under."

"Abbeybeasts, eh Frettie?" Sharpfur commented. He did not notice the pained expression on the ferret's face.

"Frettie?" Asked Grey, uncertain.

"Leave me alone." Fret snapped, turning to leave.

But Sharpfur had had enough. "Why do you even care what everbeast thinks! Vermin are vermin, abbeybeasts are not! Evil in the skin, good from the cot!" He pointed at the ferret's frozen back. "If you spend all your life getting beast's to like you, you'll be the most popular deadbeast in Mossflower! Stop caring and grow up or go back to your bloody abbey!"

* * *

"Momchillo! Dinner's ready!" Rosebrush's voice echoed through the hall. Through the bell tower. Through the walls, through the snow-covered ground.

"Rosebrush, what is it?" Came Blind Agatha's voice. "Have you seen my son by any chance, the youngest one?"

"No, I haven't." Rosebrush replied. And soon Redwall rung with the names of missing children.

"Matiya!"

"Tibbers!"

"Jack! Wot! Jack!"

But nobeast replied.


	9. Everything Goes Even More Wrong

Fret felt like a vegetable. Frozen in his choice. He went to bed, sore and tired and in want of sleep, and when he woke he begged for sleep, but his tears were the only ones who heard him. He was vermin. The simple fact made his heart burn and fresh tears well up. He was vermin. No matter what, he was vermin. That was all he'd ever be. No matter what he did.

The Honest Bunch probably thought him a weakling no doubt. Always crying and wallowing in misery. But nobeast understood him. He was different. Too different. Neither abbeybeast, nor vermin could ever call him one of them. And that was the root of his tears. Alone. He'd always be alone. Sad and alone. He was crying again.

"Fret." It was Grey. The rat approached cautiously.

"Go away!" Fret snapped instinctively. He needed a sign. An answer to the question that plagued his mind. What should he do?

"Frettie... Why are you crying?" The rat swallowed cautiously. He didn't want to open a wound.

"Because everybeast hates me!" Fret responded. It was half a whine, half a snap. He did not know why, but he opened himself to the rat. "I didn't do anything rotten, but I've always been vermin to them. Now you've gone and kidnapped them, and I can't go back home. Else I'd just be vermin!"

"Frettie... Mayhaps you ought to consider joining us-hold yer paw... Just look. I mean... Mayhaps you'll miss those in the abbey, but you'll have me and Sharpfur with you. And the others. And your friends, well the captain's got to decide what to do with them, not us, but don't fret, captain's nice. She don't actually skin beasts, just says she will. She might even let you all go back."

"And I'll go back to being hated Grey. I don't belong in Redwall, Grey, I don't belong with you."

"Then where do you belong?"

"I don't know!" Fret whined. "Nowhere. Alone." The ferret shrugged. "I don't even know."

"Sometimes I feel like I don't belong here." Grey Claw confessed. "I can't fight as good as Threeclaw, I'm not scary like Deathglare, I'm not smart like Sharpfur, I'm not cruel. I can't tell stories, wrap bandages. I eat too much, I'm too kind. I don't fit in either Frettie... But they keep me. They laugh at me, with me, pat my stomach, gimme food. They love me...But I'm different. Just... Try to...not cry a bit. We mean what we say here... Just try to... Jump right in..." He finished lamely, twidling his thumbclaws.

Those words and Sharpfur's own buried into Fret's mind. Indeed, they pushed him to his resolve.

* * *

Her name was Thornflame, and right now she had a headache like no other. The black rat was tall, and sinewy, lightly armed with cutlass and dagger. His message had been written in blood, whose she didn't know nor cared, but the crimson writing sent shivers down her spine-not that she let him notice.

"Longclaw, King of the Frozen North, demands our presence for his coronation?"

The rat was impassive, and drew his dagger.

Any other member of her crew would have reached for a weapon, but she was not so easily frightened. The rat stabbed at the table, scratching a simple answer into it. 'Yes.'

A mute... Naturally. "Is there anybeast on your boat that still has a tongue to use?" She growled.

The rat scratched another word into the table. 'No.'

She felt another shiver coming, but hid it well. "And if I refuse?"

No word was needed to explain the simple truth. The rat moved the dagger along his throat. She grimaced.

"I will give my answer in a moment. I have my officers to discuss this with." The black rat bowed, and left, leaving the dagger on the table. A moment later Gulash, Threeclaw and Deathglare walked in.

Gulash was the oldest in her crew, a large rat, almost as silent as the beast that had just left. Foul-tempered, angry, yet he had once strangled a badger bare-pawed-or so he claimed. Threeclaw was the best fighter, a sellsword of some notoriety that stayed with them for the fun of it. He had the annoying habit of making up words to use. Deathglare was not a fighter, but his mind worked quicker than anybeast. His voice was low and soft, almost a whisper, so whenever he spoke, the room was silenced.

The albino stoat was humming to himself as he read the letter. "Forgive me, Capetan, but nobeast has ever cqlled himself King of the Frozen North."

Deathglare frowned very slightly. "It's a trap. Anybeast can see that."

"If I refuse them, then we fight now, against a ship full of mutes." Thornflame rubbed her temple.

"Ah, that is excellent! Having no tongue, means they can't plead for mercy." The ferretmaid was not sure if he was joking or not.

"If you accept you follow them into a cave, with larger numbers and greater odds against us. What King would want anything to do with us anyhow?"

"Exactly, we aren't a threat to him. He has no reason to harm us. And mayhaps all he wants is to mark his teritory." She shot up, determined to speak her mind.

"It is colder up there. Moreso now than afore. We can't travel. We have young to look after and raise. We have food aplenty."

"What would you have me do?" She snapped.

"Flee. Turn tails, travel south. To someplace warmer." Deathglare advised.

"Scared?" Threeclaw sneered.

"Very. Who slices the tongue of a loyal crew, I ask you? Not a petty sellsword, he who does this can call himself king, and it wouldn't be a lie."

"So we must flee? And the rats? What becomes of them?" Maybe it was the truth of his words, or the way he said them that made her shiver.

"Slay them. Flay them. Steal their ship at night. It makes little difference. But we cannot go north."

Gulash grunted in agreement, and Thornflame grimaced. "We'll go south then. Make sure the rats are dealt with. We'll need their ship." The smile she gave was evil.

* * *

Bella rubbed her forehead, and itched at her muzzle. It was snowing hard and fast outside. And the news made her ill. All Gone... All the young un's of the abbey were missing. Fret had vanished first, and his disappearance had broken Constance and Connington... But now...

The one eyed captain of the Long Patrol's son had gone, as had the Log-a-log's. The foremole's daughter, Blind Agatha's youngest child, Rosebrush's only child, Hawthorn the eldest of two, Grollo the cook's son. It made her chest heavy, and breathing hard. Abbot Martin had fainted at the news. All his students had vanished.

The Long Patrol wanted to leave the abbey, but the snow had piled thick and heavy, and the doors would not open. The hares had naturally made a third option and their ome-eyed captain had taken a team of his best, and climbed down the walls with ropes. Now those still within the abbey were left to worry.

And then the tales poured out of panicked beasts. First a ferret had vanished, then the others. Had the ferret done something wicked?

Bella could not blame them for their suspicions. The young ferret had always been unfriendly, but she could not imagine him harming anybeast... At least not til he was older. Then it didn't take much imagination.

She had to be fair. For the sake of all beasts. The crowd before her were scared and thick with worry. She raised a paw for silence.

"Our young'uns vanished all at once. Mayhaps they are merely locked out by the same snow that locks us in, and are out there in Mossflower, awaiting our rescue. In that case you have nothing to fear. If they ventured further they may have found shelter, Either way we shan't know until it stops snowing. Then we will venture out and find them, and bring them back, unless the Long Patrol has beaten us to it!"

 _And if they are perished?_ The last thought was left unsaid.

"I know in mine heart, as you should in turn, that no harm has befallen any of them." Her words lifted the cloud of worry off of everyone... Except herself.

* * *

Thornflame was surrounded. Their were maybe twenty rats in all, but none wore armour, and judging from their relaxed postures they weren't expecting a battle. Their captives were in Sick-Eye's tent along with the younger vermin. Gulash stood beside her, leaning on his axe. Threeclaw was in front. Deathglare was no fighter and scared of blood, he had volunteered to secure the ship.

"Your King is no King of ours!" She declared loudly, beaming.

The tall rat's glare made the smile on the ferretmaid's lips impossible to believe. The rat freed a dagger, and sliced open his own paw, letting the drops fall like rain into the snow. It was an act of war.

Gulash's axe freed the rat's head of his body, and scattered more blood into the snow. The headless corpse twitched madly and fell back, spraying the ground crimson. The other rats were a minute too slow on the uptake, and a minute was all Threeclaw needed to put a rapier through one, and a dagger into the other. Thornflame ducked as one rat made a mad lurch towards her, swung too high and died gurgling on the blood that spilled from his throat. She stole his dagger and threw it at another rat, killing him instantly. Threeclaw's paws were a blur as he danced through the black wave, making blood fly in a gruesome spectacle. Gulash knocked one rat aside, and cleaved another in two. Sickletail parried a blade that had almost slverminornflame in two. Heartrip, another weasel, was not fast enough to block a cutlass, which sliced into her shoulder. If not for her tough bones, and Sickletail's knife slicing into the rat's tail, she's have lost an arm. Heartrip finished him off with teeth and fang, biting into the rodent's throat and tearing out his windpipe.

The remaining mutes scattered and fled into the trees. Threeclaw felled one with a dagger, but his next one missed by an inch, and the rats made good their escape. Thornflame smirked at Heartrip, the younger weasel freed the saber from her shoulder. She was feint from all the blood, and gore speckled her muzzle, but she had slain a rat.

"Get that tended to. Sick-Eyes will be with the captives. Deathglare, the ship is ours?"

The pine marten didn't even try to smile, he merely nodded as if his neck was stiff. "Speaking of the captives, what shall we do with them?"

* * *

Fret made his move the moment he noticed the oncoming battle. With nearly the entire Honest Bunch busy, they stood a chance at escape. He burst into Sick-Eye's tent and stared directly at the seer, he let panic creep into his voice.

"It's Sickletail! She's bleeding out! I dunno what happe-"

"What?!" Sharpfur was the first one out, dirk drawn, moving with remarkable speed. Even vermin loved their mothers after all. Sick-Eyes followed in a bit less haste.

"Is she alright?" Grey Claw asked, so quietly Fret almost didn't register it.

"I think she's dying." Fret said flatly.

Grey Claw burst out, sobbing, and left the tent.

Fret held back a laugh, the fools had taken it in. Hook, line and sinker. Now he had something important to do.

"It would be such a pity if she died." Momchillo commented dryly.

Fret almost cowered from all their collective glares. "L-look... I-"

"Chumming up with your vermin, are you?" The hated mouse responded.

"No!" Fret snapped. His resolve was weakening at every moment. He had convinced himself that Constance would believe him, no matter what the others said. And the others would know he was friends with them if he freed them, right? He couldn't snap. He wasn't meant to. He just had to convey what had happened. "I fell off Redwall-"

"And got saved by your new mates, huh?"

"No! I was out cold! I didn't ask to be rescued. I was going to come back-"

"To steal us at a later date. What have I ever done to you?" Momchillo barked, and Fret hated him. So much pain would have been avoided, if only the one, angry mouseling could have held his tongue.

"I'm not vermin!" Fret snapped. "I came here to-"

"Join your crew! Did you 'jump right in?'"

"Let me speak!" Fret half screeched, half pleaded. They needed to know he was not vermin. That he was helping them.

"I don't need the words of a liar and a traitor to befoul my ears! You sold us out! We grew up together you black-"

Fret reached for a knife. Action spoke louder than words, right? If he could cut the rope then maybe they would understand. He raised the knife.

"Fret, please!" Matiya screamed. Hawthorn shrieked 'NO!', Jack struggled madly, Tibbers whimpered, and Threeclaw deftly disarmed the ferret.

Instinctively Fret backed away. "I-I-I".

"You. You. You will be telling me what you intended to do with the knife. Cut him, or the rope? Come now amigo, don't lie to me." The stoat's rapier was at his throat, and Fret took another step back.

He had seconds to work. He could tell the truth and get scewered alive and die knowing the others knew he had died a goodbeast. Or he could lie and grovel for mercy. He chose the latter.

"I wanted to kill him!" Fret said, so suddenly it came out as yet another snap. "I was going to kill him... For all the wrong he's done to me. I hate him!"

* * *

Fleetfoot One-Eye was not the strongest, nor fastest, nor did he have the most experience. The one thing he had to truly brag about was his hearing, and it was not difficult to hear the yelling coming from an otherwise invisible tent of snow. Further away a small battle was taking place, but it was between some ferrets, weasels and so forth, against a band of black rats. He nodded at his hares.

"Stay here chaps. I will return swiftly." The other hares nodded.

Captain Fleetfoot was as silent as death as he crept through the snow, leaving barely a track in the snow. Silence was his ally. The yelling was continuing, but there were more voices, and panicked ones at that. Then a soft voice he recognized vaguely. Then a response. He caught the last words only. "I hate him!" Entranced by the voice, the crunch of snow beneath his foot was audible.

"Go to hell traitor!"

"Shut it mouse! I heard something." Then the voice he vaguely recognized, and a face he loathed, climbed out of the tent.

Threeclaw and One-Eye took one moment to register each other. Then, as one, they raised their voices.

"EULAILIA!"

"LONG PATROL!"

And their steel moved as if on their own. The stoat blocked the saber with both his blades, and swung at once from two angles. One Eye saw the vermin coming at him. They were outnumbered.

To Fret's misfortune the young ferret had stumbled backwards, out of the tent. Captain Fleetfoot swung recklessly, and Threeclaw was forced to step backwards. Then the hare caught Fret by the scruff of the neck, and pressed his blade against the ferret's throat, just as the other vermin and hares showed up.

"One move!" It was an old trick, yet one that seldom worked on vermin. Yet Threeclaw fidgeted madly on his feet. Evidently his old adversary had a small scrap of honor. "Are the young'uns in the tent?"

"Oui." The stoat said, still fidgeting madly.

"Lumber, set them loose." The other hare obeyed swiftly, but found his way barred by a large rat with a poleaxe.

"Long Patrol? And what quarrel have you with us?" To Threeclaw's relief Thornflame was there now. To take command of the crew.

"Not quarrel. Just our babes. You'll excuse the whole hostage thing, wot, but we're to bring our young back home. I'm sure they enjoyed their visit, but alas, supper is almost upon us."

"Ah." The ferret eyed Fret with a smile that radiated cruelty. "I'm sure the abbybeast you're holding is so excited for the prospect of supper." Her smile widened at the hare's faces. "Oh, you don't know." She grinned widely. "Or am I lying?"

The Honest Bunch broke into laughter. And it was in that moment that Captain Fleetfoot made his move. He threw Fret behind him, with enough force to knock the wind out of him, and swung at the ferretmaid. Threeclaw parried the attack and then battle was upon them all.

"Death, Gulash, get the prisoners! And get to the ship!"

* * *

Fret landed hard on his back, wheezing for air. His world spun and him with it as he frantically climbed. Flee for the boat or Redwall? The boat or Redwall?

"Frettie!" Sharpfur was squeezing through the battle, narrowly avoiding death from every angle. "We need to move! Captain's orders!"

Fret was dizzy. "Captain?"

"Thornflame, now c'mon. We need to move!"

Redwall, or the boat? Redwall or the boat? The hare had thrown him aside, and the vermin was helping him up.

"We?" He needed an answer, but couldn't think of one.

"Come on!" Sharpfur yelled, clearly desperate to leave.

 _Goodbye momma._ Fret bit back tears, and took the weasel's paw.

* * *

 _No activity and then five updates in one night? Wot the hell?_

 _In all honesty I'd explain myself but I'm too tired right now._


	10. The Choice

The battle was not in the Long Patrol's favour. The vermin band outnumbered them almost three to one, and some had tried to circle around the tent and hit them in the rear. Lugger was rolling on the ground, two weasels and the ferretmaid were stabbing him with little knives. Cornelius Tufthurry was duelling three at once. Threeclaw and Fleetfoot were at the center of it, their steel ringing as it met time and time again. The hare had discarded his halberd in favour of a cutlass, and he swung it so quickly that it seemed he had four blades in paw instead of one. Threeclaw was slower, but with two blades he was easily able to keep up with the hare's furious blows.

* * *

Deathglare undid the final knot, Gulash lingering impatiently outside of the tent. Momchillo struck fast, headbutting the pine marten with vicious savagery. Taken by surprise the marten stumbled backwards, and before he could make a noise the mouse and Tibbers and Jack-is-Lucky pounced on him, fists raised and brought them down in quick succession.

Matiya sliced the rope off of him, the other young ones were quick to follow his example. Momchillo held a paw for silence, and in a furious whisper spoke.

"If we all rush out that way, we can make for the woods. Then we rush for Redwall. Jack, can you help Tibbers?"

The hare nodded and picked up the shrew, hoisting him up to his shoulders.

"Right. On three. Two-"

"Wait! What about Fret?" Matiya whispered suddenly.

"What about him? He tried to kill me!" Momchillo whispered back. "Anyhow who cares. Let's go home, the other vermin will look after him."

Matiya looked around at the faces. Grollo, Roseheart and Hawthorn looked like they shared the same sentiment. Jack and Tibbers were irresolute.

"You said anyone's worth risking your life for!" He hissed.

"Well..." He looked sheepish.

Matiya felt defeated. But guilt pressed him further. "Do you hate him?" He whispered at them. "I mean..." The looks on their faces were that of anger. "Before all this..."

"Fret just sold us to slavery."

Words were not Matiya's strong point. A warrior, a true warrior would have been able to convey his meaning to them. That he felt guilty of Fret's predicament. 'Liar! Liar liar liar liar!' "Well... We were never really nice to him."

"Nice? What do you mean we weren't nice to him?"

I didn't understand him either, only that something rubbed him the wrong way. "We called him vermin." Matiya refused to look any of them in the eye.

"This isn't all about the bally soup, is it?" Jack sounded thunderstruck and guilty.

"I mean... Sitting on him... Rubbed him the wrong way..." The looks he got were either confused or dumbstruck. "And we locked him in the latrines that one time."

"That was a joke!" Momchillo hissed angrily. "Does this look like a joke to you?"

"What about that time we hung him over the walls!"

"If you want to discuss every joke we've ever pulled on him can that wait till we get back!"

"What if Grollo had dropped him!" There, he had it. He had them convinced.

"Then none of us would be here!" The mouse snapped. "Maybe we pushed it a little, but we were playing a game! Does this look like a game to you!? Forget Fret and let's go h-"

He turned to leave and saw a very angry Deathglare staring at them. His eyes were spinning, and the world under Matiya spun.

"Run to the boat." Deathglare's voice said in dull monotone. The children did so, except for Momchillo.

"No! He's controlling you! Listen to-" The pine marten brought his fist down onto the mouse's head. Then Momchillo's world was black.

* * *

"You overgrowing rabbit!" Threeclaw swung at Captain Fleetfoot's feet. The hare hopped back to avoid the blow, and went in for a strike to the head.

"You stinkin' bogdweller." Threeclaw parried and lunged.

"Mangy cur!" Fleetfoot blocked and slashed.

"Poxy gnat!" Threeclaw ducked and jabbed.

"Fish-fingered yellowbelly!" Fleetfoot diverted the attack and made one of his own.

"Raving lunatic!" Threeclaw flattened himself and slashed.

"Madbeast!" Fleetfoot dived away, and swung.

"Slow-footed fiend!" Threeclaw rolled and slashed.

"Long-eared fool!" Fleetfoot parried and chopped.

"Lanky lackwit!" Threeclaw parried, and their blades held.

"Captain, the vermin are fleeing sah! Should we give chase?" Corporal Higgins was holding up the bleeding Lugger, and was barely standing himself. The other hares were dazed and bloody, but the vermin had more injuries, and judging from the bloody footprints, more injured.

Threeclaw stabbed suddenly, aiming for Fleetfoot's foot. The hare was taken by surprise and slashed wildly. The stoat turned tails and raced away, laughing madly. The Captain ignored the Corporal's dazed 'sah?' and gave chase.

* * *

The spell was broken once they were on board. Jack's first move was to pounce on Gulash, and sink his teeth into the rat's shoulder.

The big rat yelled and stumbled to the ground. Overcome with battle mania Grollo slapped at a weasel with a wounded shoulder. Hawthorn chose a small rat as her target (well small compared to the other rats). He turned to her just as she pounced, shoving him to the deck, before slamming a fist into his unprotected nose. Desperate she raised a fist once more, only for a weasel to pounce on her.

Jack did not fare well against the battle hardened rat, who reached him off and shoved him onto the deck, bringing a footpaw down onto the lagomorph's nose in quick succession.

Grollo was choking the weasel, who's face was purple as she tried to scratch at both his paws with one of her own.

The weasel had taken her by surprise, and now the two were rolling on the deck, clawing and kicking at one another. Sharpfur tried to tear at her ear, but her kicks kept pushing him away.

"Stop!" Thornflame yelled. Grollo stopped, and let go of Heartrip, the injured weasel gasping for breath. Gulash stopped mid-swing and Sharpfur stopped biting, but Hawthorn's footpaw connected with his nose.

"Why you-" He clutched his nose in pain, muttering mutinously in anger.

"Gulash tie them to the mast, all of you on your feetpaws! We're moving now!"

The command was like a spell, and the vermin set to the work, pulling the sail open and raising the anchor.

"No!" Captain Fleetfoot bellowed in rage. Threeclaw pounced and caught the anchor by the edge, cackling madly.

"Stay alive hare, I still owe you some fingers!" The albino stoat laughed, then shrieked as one paw was crushed against the boat.

The ship was moving fast down the river. Fleetfoot chased after it on the riverbank.

"Kids! We're coming kids! Keep your chins up we'll save you! Just... Stay alive!"

The vermin jeered from the deck of the ship, and the old hare growled hatefully. He would get them back... And those vermin had better be ready for when he did.

* * *

"This is all your fault!" Momchillo snapped at Matiya.

"My fault?" The squirrel looked stricken.

"If we had just ran away when I said so!"

"B-but Fret-"

"Is one of them!"

Fret's ears drooped. Grey Claw on the other paw, looked ecstatic.

"You're staying?" Fret looked at his happy face and felt more lost than ever before.

Sharpfur grinned and stepped between them. "What did I tell you Grey! He'd come around."

The rat hugged Fret and by extent Sharpfur, who was now pinned between them. "So, are you my brother now?"

Fret slumped low, still in Grey's grip. He had no choice. He never had a choice.

* * *

 _A few hours later..._

* * *

Gulash walked up to the mast and smacked Momchillo across the face. The children screamed, and the mouse went limp. Gulash undid the knot and pulled him loose. He pointed at the ferret and grunted. Fret understood, his fur tingling nervously, he rose and followed the large rat into rhe cabin.

Thornflame was smiling in that way that made Fret shiver. It was almost as bad as Deathglare's vacant expression. Threeclaw was smiling from the shadows, one paw on the hilt of his rapier, the other cocooned in bandages. Gulash closed the door behind them both, still dragging Momchillo by the tail. Fret suddenly felt very nervous.

"Ah, Frettie, that's your name right?" Thornflame's voice made his furs stand on end.

"Y-yes." He stuttered, his claws fretfully twiddling with each other.

"And do you 'fret' much?"

"N-no. Not really."

"That's excellent. Ferrets fretting, Silvertongue would make a song of that." The others laughed.

"Haha, yeah..." He trailed off as the laughter died out.

"Now, Fret. Threeclaw said something about you. You hate this mouse?" She pointed at Momchillo. Fret stumbled backwards.

"N-yes! Yes I-I do! I hate him very much!" He said, nodding feverishly, hoping the lie would be enough to placate them.

Thornflame smiled and drew a dagger. Fret tried to take a step backwards, but Gulash stood in place, preventing the ferret from backing out. "Excellent. Now, you said you wanted to kill him? Was this true?"

"Yes!" He snapped desperately. The walls of the cabin seemed to be closing in on him. "I hate him, he's always been cruel to me!"

"Of course." She tossed the dagger and caught it by the blade, holding the handle in his direction. "Take it."

The approaching panic made Fret accept the dagger in a shaking paw. Deathglare was impassive, Gulash still held Momchillo, Threeclaw's lazy smile. It all made Fret shiver.

"Now. Kill him." And she pointed at Momchillo.

"Wh-what?" Fret gulped. "N-no-"

"But you hate him, don't you?"

"I do! B-but you need him!" He said, grabbing at the first excuse he could think of.

"I don't care about one mouse. You hate him. Kill him."

"I-I-I-" His paw was shaking madly, he was sure the others could see. He doubted he could kill the mouse, even if he wanted to.

"You. You. You. Kill him. Go on. You'd have done it before."

Fret dropped the knife. "I-I can't-"

"But you'd have done it before, surely it should be easier now." They were playing with him, he realized, and he let out a whimper.

"I lied! I lied! I lied!" He gulped audibly. "I was going to free them... T-t-to bring them back t-to R-Redwall." Thoughts of Redwall were painful. He tried desperately to stop shaking.

Gulash placed a strong paw on the back of his neck. He wondered whether death would be a relief.

"Fret, thank you for your honesty. Now, you have nothing to fear. Your friends are our guests. We will not harm them. They are hostages, to allow us safe passage past Salamandastron. We will sell them to woodlanders for food and drink. As for you? Mayhaps we'll sell you too. Or mayhaps you'll join us." She shrugged. "It's your choice. You ought to think about it."

Gulash's grip tightened.

"But... If you are ever inclined to betray me again..." She smiled her dark little smile. "We'll see how strong Gulash's grip is. Understood?"

Fret nodded weakly. "I-I-I-"

"You. You. You. Get out."

* * *

"Bloody blighters. We'll catch up to them fast though, never fear. Take care of Lugger, it's all we ask, wot. They'll be travelling south Moss River, the current can take 'em fast, but they'll have to stop at night or sink their boat."

"We are good with boats. And if they have as few as you say we can go doublequick." The Log-a-log stepped forwards with a score of shrews. Fleetfoot smiled a little.

"Well chaps, it's Mattimeo all over again, if I may say so myself."

"I'm coming too." Connington's voice brokered no argument. He was clad in an old chain suit, with some signs of rust, a round, wooden shield was strapped to his back. A sword dangled from his hip. He had failed them all, but if Fret was out there then he'd live up to his promise to the Abbot. He'd go to the Dark Forest and back and drag his nephew home if he had to.

Bella smiled wrily. "Good luck friends, may the fates beut she left that unsaid.

* * *

Constance was sleeping when he entered. Good, she'd probably strangle him.

"Constance... I'm not going to fail this time. I... Failed you, and Rowland and your babes," his voice cracked weakly, but he found his resolve. "But there's a chance to save Fret, and I won't fail him... I can't fail him." Jon found that he regretted coming to say goodbye. "I'll be back... See you soon."

And with that he left.

* * *

 _Footnote: Haha! Adventures here we come my mateys!_


	11. Life With the Honest Bunch

"Can I have this pasty?" Grey pointed at a lone pastry that sat between him, Fret and Sharpfur.

"No! It's mine you greedy glutton!"

"But you just said you were full."

"Then why did you ask?"

They did this every day. The first time Fret had made the mistake of telling them to share. The whole crew had laughed at that joke, and in his shame Fret had been reminded of the feast in Redwall. And thoughts of Redwall made his stomach twirl like a dancer. Three days, they had been sailing for three days. Though it had been four days since the feast.

"Fret, tell Grey that he had the pasty yesterday."

"But you had it yesterday, and the day before that."

Fret tuned them out. The abbey youngsters hated him. They had believed what he had lied to Threeclaw about. That he hated Momchillo, that he had tried to put a knife in him... Hate was such a strong word. He had never liked the mouse to begin with, and was tempted to hit him, especially now, when held back by rope, but Fret doubted he could put a knife in anybeast, and Thornflame's harsh lesson had only confirmed that reality. Unfortunately, the mouse had not been concious at the time.

"Gimme the pasty today and you can have it tommorow."

"You always say that."

"I do not!"

"You said it yesterday, and the day before that..." Greyclaw replied timidly.

"A pasty!" Sharpfur's three little sisters pounced onto it, and in a moment all that was left was a crumb.

"That was mine!" Sharpfur snapped, then Cheesenibbles, his baby brother, bit his little tail. "OW! Owowowow Grey pull him off!" Grey obliged, pulling the smaller weasel off.

"Cheese, Sharpfur isn't edible. Go an' ask ma for some food. You three go with him."

"Okay matey!" And together the band crawled off, leaving Sharpfur to nurse his tail.

"Why do they always listen to you?" The weasel whined. "I actually am there brother!"

"Like you spend your days listening to elders. Tsk, tsk. Come Sharpfur mon copain, let's practice in poco." Threeclaw approached with this usual swagger.

The weasel pounced to his feet, dirk drawn. "Har-har! This time you'll be eating splinters!"

The albino stoat, despite having to use only his left paw, soundly defeated him. A few moments later the young weasel was spinning around, clutching his head dizzily.

"I was telling you to duck." Threeclaw commented. "Grey, would you be wanting to try?"

The young rat shook his head. "N-no si-Threeclaw."

"Ah poor Grey, he still thinks this is the bloody Long Patrol, where you say 'sah' and 'wot' like an overgrowing rabbit."

"It's not faaaaaair!" Sharpfur whined, readjusting himself. "You're older."

"No you idiot, you keep missing your lunges." Matiya seemed to especially hold a grudge against Sharpfur.

"That didn't stop you loosing!" The mustelid snapped, his fur bristling.

"You fought dirty." The squirrel replied.

"There is no such thing as fighting dirty squirrel. And you can take your dignity and throw it overboard, you tried to strangle me from behind."

"Would you like to go again?" Matiya challenged.

"I hope you don't beat up Fret again, that tooth was special to him." Sharpfur grinned, showing that none of his own teeth were missing.

The squirrel shot a glance at Fret, and guilt boiled over him. Had he created this? Fret shrunk. "Are you up for it weasel?"

"That is not happening." The stoat stepped between them. "Redwaller, you may be desiring a fight, but we're in a mess because I wounded the shrew. I'm sorry but I cannot let you fight mi amigo, else you might be hurting soon after."

"You're sorry for not letting him strangle your pet, but you're not sorry about holding us captive?" Momchillo's voice was so dry it could dehydrate an apple.

"You are not being captive. You are being guests. Capetan has already been explaining to you. We will catch woodlander boat, and sell you for food. Your kind and brave woodlanders bring you back to Redwall and mi pienso que we are all happy."

"You don't tie guests to masts." Momchillo responded.

"Really? I wasn't knowing. I'll be remembering next time." The stoat chuckled. "Do you have food? Are you cold? Dry? Mayhaps un poco uncomfortable, mais you have what you are needing. If you are behaving we'll even ungag the hare. We are honest, mi amigos, we don't want you dying, cheer up a little and mayhaps we can have some adventures together. Sharpfur on your feetpaws, now we are moving quicker, yes?"

* * *

 _Later that day..._

* * *

"And stole the honey from her hare, the hare, the hare and the weasel fair!"

Silvertongue's sole talent was singing. And sing he did. Sharpfur's father looked almost exactly the same as his son. Taller by a bit, the weasel strung his loot as he danced around the deck, his voice echoing in a fine melody.

"The hare smelled his honey in the air, in the air, in the air, he smelled it there!"

Then the whole crew sung up. "The hare, the hare and the weasel fair!"

"He chased the weasel from here to there and there to here! And smelled the honey in the air!"

"The hare, the hare, and the weasel fair!" The crew bellowed back. And then a cacophany of hoots and cheers filled the deck.

Silvertongue grinned, and bowed to the applause. Then Sickletail put her arms around him. "You were excellent, my weasel fair."

"And you, my honied hare." He responded in the same voice.

"Use the cabin if you're going to get all lovey-dovey again." Sick-Eyes snapped, making her way past the two.

"What about you abbeybeasts? Do you know any good music?" The weasel inquired, his mate and him pulling away from each other.

Sick-Eyes sat next to Tibbers and began undoing his bandages. "If I hear any more music out of ye, I'll shove your head up that loot. Snap at me and you'll be needing bandages."

Silvertongue backed down, and went to join Gulash and Threeclaw at a fire the two had built on-deck.

"I can't stand his bloody loot. Every time he sings that stupid song another one of his babes shows up, and I can't stand them either!"

Sharpfur snarled at her. "Right back at ye, ye sack of bones."

"You'll be a sack of broken bones if you don't shut yer trap!"

Sharpfur shut up.

"Now, now hare, I'm going to ungag ye. Behave yerself or it shall go back on."

Jack-is-Lucky was quite at first. "That song was in poor taste ole chap."

Silvertongue grinned, and approached. "It's a fair shanty I say. Know any yerself?"

Jack burst into song. "O vermin if you dare, come and visit us someday. Bring all your friends and weapons with you 'll find a good warm welcome, let nobeast living cold steel was never good enough for you. You won't find no helpless beasts all undefended. Like the old ones, babes, and mothers that you've slain. And you'll find that when your pleasant visit's ended. You'll never ever leave our shores again. All you cowards of the land and you flotsam of the sea. Who murder, pillage, loot, whene'er you please. There's a Long Patrol a waitin', we'll greet you cheerfully. You'll hear us cry 'Eulalia' on the breeze.'Tis a welcome to the bullies who slay without a care,All those good and peaceful creatures who can't fight. But perilous and dangerous the beast they call the hare. Who stands for nought but honor and the right."

Then the deck filled with laughter and hooting. Nobeast but Fret could stand upright, or look at the hare without laughing like half-madbeasts.

"What!? This isn't bloomin' funny!" The hare scowled.

Deathglare sent a chill down the hare's spine when they made eye-contact. "Old ones, babes and mothers?" He shook his head and for half a moment he wanted to laugh.

"We are not butchering you, babes." Silvertongue pointed out. "And mine mate is a mother, and Sick-Eyes is the oldest one!"

"Mayhaps we're not dead yet, but we're tied to a mast and are for sale like a slab of fish. Tell me, what beast ties babes to masts!"

"We do." Silvertongue grinned. "Pretty song." And then the crew laughed like madbeasts.

The vermin went below deck afterwards, or into the cabin, leaving Fret to laze on the deck. These times were the worst of all. He was left alone with the others to watch and loathe him while he slumped into a depressed pile of fur.

He tried very hard to keep Redwall out of his mind, but he knew almost nothing that wasn't related to the abbey. Food reminded him of the feasts, or Constance filling their whole hut with steam. She had always tried to instill manners into him. She had insisted he use a fork and knife and spoon like a civilized beast. Constance made things worse. He saw her face in his dreams, asking him to come home. And in his dreams Fret was always whimpering that he couldn't. Thoughts of his uncle were almost as bad. Connington was telling him that he wasn't vermin, that he never would be. And Fret's mind responded the way it always did.

 _Look at me now uncle. What do you think I am?_

Jack could feel the lack of joy around him, and hated it. "Now, now chaps and chapettes, we mustn't let our moods fall down, wot. The Long Patrol has never lost a fight I should say, wot, yes yes, we'll be alright and good."

But the sombre mood would not leave.

"Come on chaps, let's make the best of a bag bargain! Who knows a good story?" Honestly the depression was starting to get to him.

"I know one." Momchillo said loudly. "Once upon a time, Redwall Abbey took in a young ferret babe. They raised him, and loved him, and in the end he lead them all to slavery."

Fret curled up further into a ball.

"That was the worst story I have ever heard!" Sharpfur commented. "Then again, you abbeybeasts don't have many good tales, do you?"

"What is that supposed to mean?" Hawthorn fixed him with a cool, piercing gaze.

The weasel took a step back from her gaze, despite her lack of freedom. "That you muckers don't know how to tell a good story."

"Burr we're moighty good at it oll methinks."

Cringing from the moletalk, Sharpfur held up a paw. "Your stories all have: your magic sword, some undefeatable fighters, the good ole evil vermin and yer happy endings." He listed, grinning toothily.

"Oh please-like you could come up with a better story." Momchillo snapped.

"I could. All vermin do! We all write the stories of our lives." Sharpfur said, puffing out his chest.

"Very eloquent." The mouse's sarcasm was palpable.

Sharpfur chuckled, and poked the mouse's nose. "My point is, yer stories are all the same. Every vermin's different. Our tales are realistic."

"Well you all end up dead, so yes. Very realistic."

"Everybeast ends up dead." Sharpfur shrugged. "But I ain't dying anytime soon." And with that he walked off, his tongue poking out mockingly.

"I'm going to kill him." Momchillo growled. "One day, I'm going to kill him."

Sharpfur sat down next to Fret. "Seasick?"

Fret was glad of the excuse, and nodded weakly. He couldn't show any weakness around any of the other vermin.

"It happens. If yer gonna puke, stick your head overboard." The weasel advised.

"Wutt if oim feelin' loike oim about to emptea moine stomach?"

"Then yell 'bucket' and hold it in." Sharpfur withdrew his dagger and began tossing it up and down.

"Make sure to get some on him." Hawthorn advised.

"I heard that." Sharpfur snapped.

"Good. I wouldn't want to catch you off guard. Again."

Sharpfur's fur bristled in anger. "Listen vole. If you don't close yer mouth, I'll cut yer tongue out!"

"Sure you will. You're just a scared little rodent." All eyes were going from Hawthorn to Sharpfur.

"Scared? Pah! Of you! Pshaw! I'll gut ye here and now."

"Then get it over with you gutless coward!" She yelled.

Greyclaw burst out from the cabin, the little weasels hanging from his ears or clutching at his tail. "Is something wrong?"

"We are being held against our will by a pack of stinking rats! What do you think is wrong!?" Hawthorn was red in the face from yelling.

Grey was slow on the uptake. "Er..."

"Ignore her Grey. She just wants to count the trees in the Dark Forest." Sharpfur growled.

Fret, feeling a twist in his stomach that had nothing to do with the rocking on the boat, climbed up and threw his head over the side of the boat.

"Better out than in matey." Sharpfur said, patting the ferret on the back.

"Rat. How long until you get sold into slavery?" Momchillo turned his head to Greyclaw.

"Er... Never?"

"Really? I thought so too. Until you know, I got sold into slavery. I'd be careful if I were you. Fret has a habit of selling his 'mates'."

"Frettie?"

"He's going to lead you to a ditch and leave you there to rot!"

Grey looked stricken and turned to Fret. The ferret was in no position to tell him otherwise. "You're abandoning me?" He said in a hollow voice.

Sharpfur was on him in a heartbeat, piggybacking on the rat to stroke his head. "Nononono the mouse is just lying. We're mates Grey, I would never dream of getting rid of you."

"But he said-"

"He's just a mean, mean mousie. Nobeast's gonna separate us."

Momchillo opened his mouth to argue, but Sharpfur was quick on the uptake. "Can you smell that?"

"All I smell is you."

"Mmmmm, vittles. Ma's cooking. Go ahead, I'll join you in a minute."

Grey nodded weakly and walked back into the cabin, a vacant expression on his face. Sharpfur walked up to the tied mouse, and grabbed him by the front of his habit, his small claws outstretched and hanging dangerously close to his face.

"You hit a nerve mousie." He growled dangerously low. "Say something like that again and when I'm done with you your own mother wouldn't recognize your stinking tail." The weasel let him go and skulked off, slamming the cabin door shut behind him.

* * *

 _That night..._

* * *

Fret shivered on the deck. It was cold and raining and Silvertongue was singing loudly. Something tasty was cooking, but Fret had no appetite. He couldn't keep anything down anyways, so what was the point of eating?

His fur was wet and filthy, and he was shivering like a madbeast.

"Why are you here?" Matiya asked him suddenly. Fret looked up. The captives were drier than he was, with the sail acting as an umbrella. They were warmer too, all snoozing next to each other. Matiya, it seemed, was the only one awake.

Fret looked back at the deck feeling even more miserable.

Matiya tried a different tack. "You remember the feast at Redwall?"

Fret wondered whether the squirrel was tormenting him on purpose.

"You remember at the walls... What you said to me?"

The ferret nodded.

"Well... I don't hate you."

Fret sniffed and stared a his feet. He didn't have the energy needed to snap. "I already know what you think. You don't have to lie anymore."

"No... Fret. I'm serious. I don't hate you. I never did."

They stared at each other for a long time.

"It doesn't matter. I can't go back anymore. I just proved you all right. I was vermin all along."

"And what does that mean? So what if you're vermin? Look Fret... I've probably said a lot of stupid things to you. I've done stupid things to you-but I never meant anything by them. It was all just a game. I didn't realize I was hurting you when I-"

"Whacked me sore with your stupid sword?" Somehow he could snap again. "When you said I was Ungatt Trunn or Badrang? When you laughed while your brothers tried to pull my mask off?" Fret stood up. "If you didn't know then you're an idiot and if you did then you hate me same as everybeast else."

"Then I'm an idiot! I'm sorry Fret... I didn't know that it bothered you so much-"

"Bothered me? Your lying bothers me! You didn't know? How could you not know?"

"You never said anything! I'm sorry! I was a stupid squirrel and I didn't think! "

Fret stared at the squirrel. His mouth open.

"We were looking for you the day they caught us. If I hated you would I go looking for you?"

Fret was dumbstruck. He blinked and thought up more arguments. It's a trick. Was his first instinct. Matiya was lying to him. But the squirrel's face said otherwise.

"I'm sorry."

Fret's jaw fell open. "I-I-" Another thought popped up and his ears perked up slightly. "So... The others..." Had he been wrong all along? They had come looking for him too.

"I... Don't know."

Fret's ears drooped. "It doesn't matter now. I can never go back."

"Don't say that. We'll get back, okay?"

Fret sniffed glumly. "You might."

There was a short pause. Matiya chewed on his tongue,, trying to choose the best words for the dripping ferret.

"Are you cold?"

"No." Fret lied instantly. He sneezed loudly. "N-yes."

"Come here. It's not so wet, and it's warmer."

Fret hesitated.

"Come on. You're going to catch a cold."

The ferret shook himself mostly dry. He walked over and slumped next to the squirrel.

An awkward silence descended.

"So..." Matiya wondered how long he'd have to string words together to save the day. "Were you going to... Kill Momchillo?".

Fret gave the squirrel a quick glance. Tell the truth. Tell the truth. He's being nice! And that was exactly why Fret lied. Since when was Matiya nice to him? "Kill... Not really. I was..." Going to free you. "Hurt him... But kill is a little... Much." Vermin are vermin, and you'll always be one. He knows it and you know it.

Matiya sighed. "I can't speak for the others. But... It's okay. I forgive you."

Fret almost smiled, but his own thoughts prevented him from doing so. A goodbeast would have told him the truth. You're just a vermin, and you know it. Mayhaps he'll forgive you now, tied to a mast and lonely, but what about when he's all safe and sound? Do you think he'll give a fig about you?

Fret didn't know the answer, but at least it was warmer there.

* * *

 _Footnote: Merry Christmas! Well Christmas Eve but who cares. The next few chapters will be a lot like this- filler-ey if you will._

 _Now some more information. Trivia if you will._

 _Grey Claw and Greyclaw, different spelling, same character._

 _Threeclaw, Incidentally there is a 'canon vermin' named Threeclaw. He's one of the slavers in Matimeo and surprisingly he doesn't die. Though he is not an albino or a stoat._

 _Fret's name comes from the fact that he spends a lot of time worrying and over thinking things._

 _There's more stuff, but not exactly relevant now._

 _Enjoy_


	12. Everything Gets Much Worse

The deck was clear when Matiya made his move the next day.

"What do you think of Fret?" He asked cautiously, expecting a full on rant from them all.

Momchillo sighed in frustration. "Why are you suddenly obsessed with him? We went to bring him back to Redwall, because you convinced us to. We would have gone home if it weren't for your obsession with him back at the tent. And now, you want us to talk about him. Okay. Let's talk. Why do you care so much?"

"Well... Fret is a... Complicated beast." _I should have payed more attention to the recorders. Talking is so difficult._

"Oi. He be moighty difficult to be a thoinkin' about."

"He thinks we hate him." Matiya finally blurted out.

"And we do!" Momchillo snapped. "Or did you by chance not notice that we are tied to a mast?"

"I'm angry at him too!" Matiya shot back. "But-"

"And before he sold us to slavery he was mean and weird. He kept looking at me!" Hawthorn added.

"Well yeah but-"

"But what do you expect? He's vermin Matiya!"

"But he was hurt when-"

"When what? Everybeast feels pain you idiot! Stop acting like he's our friend. He's with them and that makes him an enemy!"

"But he's a good enemy-"

"The only good enemy is a dead enemy." Sharpfur grinned.

"Don't you have some village to raid?" Grollo grumbled.

"Me? Nah, I'm too little." He chuckled, laying safely against the mast. "Please continue debiliating vermin psychopathy."

"We're not 'debiliating' we're 'debating'." Matiya corrected icily.

"That's what I said!" The weasel snapped.

"Liar. Liar, liar, liar, liar!" Hawthorn sung in sing-song.

"One day my lying tongue will save yer pretty hide. Shut it princess."

Before Hawthorn could reply, Matiya interrupted. _I swear the word 'liar' should be burned off the dictionary! It's going to drive me mad._ "Look Fret has problems expressing himself. It's why he gets all snappy sometimes-"

"Bahahahahaha!" Sharpfur was thumping the floor with his legs as he laughed his head off. Matiya desperately wanted to kick his tail.

The squirrel tried to continue explaining. "He thinks that everyone hates him because he's vermin-"

Sharpfur started laughing even louder.

"And it's hard to explain to him that we don't. This thing was an accident! He's as captive as we are-"

"Stop!" Sharpfur shrieked from under his laughter. "I'm gonna wet meself hahahaha!"

"Nothing is funny!" Matiya bellowed, making the weasel squirm harder. Then he stopped and waited for someone else to resume the conversation. Everyone was silent, save and except for Sharpfur, who was still laughing. Eventually he composed himself. Giggling occasionally he opened his mouth to say something-but his words fell short when something ploughed into the underside of the ship and he fell on his rump. Suddenly very annoyed.

"Hey! Do you miiii-oh um hello." He gulped weakly as a massive rat clambered silently onto the deck.

The deck became deathly quiet as the rat approached slowly, an axe hanging loosely from his belt.

Sharpfur flattened himself against the floor of the ship. "P-please great one-t-take them! I'm just the watch-beast. Mercy, great one. Mercy."

The rat stomped forwards, giving a dark chuckle. He made to unbuckle his axe.

Sharpfur was quicker, and pounced forwards, his small claws freeing his dirk and plunging it into the invader's throat.

Hawthorn screamed. Rosebrush almost fainted. The rest were drawn to the loud, gruesome spectacle and could not look away.

The big rat struggled weakly, but Sharpfur was quicker, sliding and twisting and sawing his dirk into the flesh, while blood emptied itself all over, spilling around his paws, splashing around his dirk and staining his cloth. The battle was over though, the second the dirk tore the rodent's windpipe. The rat fell, gurgling and twitching frantically as blood filled his lungs and the air he gasped in flew back out his throat.

Nobody could stop staring at it. Sharpfur was shivering, though it was not cold and was wide-eyed and horrified by the sight. Evidently the young weasel had not killed before. He looked wordlessly at the bound woodlanders, his mouth open but no words coming out-his cocky demeanour entirely gone.

Then a hundred hooks flew from the side of the ship and sunk into the wood. From the way they strained it was evident someone was climbing aboard.

Sharpfur froze,his eyes wide with fear. The dirk remained in the rat's throat.

It was Matiya who reacted first. Complain all they wanted, the vermin hadn't been cruel to them-there was no telling what these other ones would be like and it was not a risk the squirrel was willing to take. "ALL PAWS ON DECK! YOU'RE UNDER ATTACK! ALL PAWS ON DECK!"

Sharpfur looked at him, utterly speechless.

"Cut us loose!" Jack hollered at him. "We're no good being sitting ducks!"

Sharpfur didn't move. Then the first black rat popped it's ugly head overboard just as Threeclaw burst from the cabin, armed with his broadsword and rapier. The stoat wasted no time cleaving the rat's head in two, and was just as fast at slicing the ropes. But he was not fast enough to prevent a fight.

* * *

Fret woke from his first-thankfully dreamless sleep to the sound of shouting. Confused he sat up suddenly as the crew around him suddenly milled about in a drastic frenzy. Threeclaw shot up to the deck first and soon everybeast was arming himself. What was going on? Gulash gave him an accidental shove and barged past, the rest of the Honest Bunch came racing out, hollering madly.

Then he heard a distant voice yelling about 'attack' and stood up with a jolt. Then Grey was looking up at him.

"Frettie! Where's Sharpie? Have you seen him?" Fret shook his head dumbly. Would it be the hares? Would they kill him? And Grey? Or Sharpfur...

"I-I don't know." Anything. It was tempting to sit and cry-but the only one who he cried to was Constance and she was back at Redwall... _If I ever go back. I'm going to sit in the cottage and cry till it floods._

"Well, let's go find him to make sure he's safe- and and we can bring your friend too. The squirrel and them."

"He's not my friend." Fret snapped automatically. "I- it's-complicated."

"I heard you, you know. Talking to him. You want to go back, don't you?" Grey tried to hide the hurt in his eyes. He wasn't very good at doing it.

Fret opened his mouth, he didn't know how to respond. Luckily, he didn't have to. Unluckily, it was because a black rat dropped down from the deck in a shower of splinters.

* * *

The fight was the most gruesome thing any of them had ever seen. Even Sharpfur-who threatened to gut them all at least twice- was frozen by the gruesomeness of it all. Blood sprayed and fell like rain, vermin rolled around on the deck, clawing and biting. Heads lay slit and bodies fell and made pools of red.

Sharpfur had not moved an inch and Matiya had stopped yelling after he'd seen Gulash crush a rat's skull bare-pawed. They had all seen the Honest Bunch, singing their shanties and joking and laughing. But this reminded them heavily that they were surrounded by killers.

Freedom came in the form of an axe that missed Deathglare's skull and split the rope inbetween Grollo and Rosebrush. The mole had already fainted and now fell forwards as the rope no longer bound them.

Still stunned, the youngsters all shared looks of shock. Then suddenly, Momchillo was struck by a great idea.

"This thing has a dinghy, right?"

Tibbers nodded incromprehensively.

"Let's get out of here!"

The group blinked and then faint smiles grew slightly. Home, was tantalisingly close.

"Hey!" Sharpfur shouted distractedly. "Y-you're-"

"Leaving." Matiya finished coldly. "Going to stop us?" The weasel made no move to do so. "Guys, our best hope is to crawl towards it, otherwise we won't get far. Grollo, help Rosebrush, Jack-"

"Don't worry, I've got the shrew."

"Okay. Right. Let's go then."

And so they bent forwards and crawled forwards one by one, leaving Sharpfur to stand there trying to say something.

It was hard work, crawling. Matiya was at the back of the line and the constant movement of the rolling and clashing vermin was difficult to navigate. The dead bodies were even harder.

Matiya had always dreamed of fighting, of being the Abbey Warrior, of slaying countless villains with a mighty swing of his sword. Yet the stories had never been like this and he was starting to believe what Sharpfur had said about vermin tales being more realistic. He caught sight of Threeclaw, frantically battling three at once. He had never seen anything like it. With small, sharp and sudden movements of his paw the stoat could parry any attack thrown at him. And with broad stroaks and decisive jabs he ended any who faced him. He danced over the carnage, light on his feet and fast, not slipping on any stray guts, hopping nimbly above a still-breathing comrade. It was the most beautiful thing he had seen-and it was butchery. He found suddenly that being a warrior was perhaps not the best career choice. Matiya forced his eyes away and made faster work.

He reached the dinghy last. Tibbers, Jack, Grollo, Rosebrush and Hawthorn were ready to leave and already on board. Momchillo looked relieved at the sight of him.

"Come on. Let's get out of here." The mouse said, and together they joined the others on the smaller boat.

The dinghy was held up by two ropes to either side and now they lowered it, one rope at a time. Slowly, gently. An eighth of the way. Heave. Ho. Slowly, surely. A quarter of the way down.

"Wait!" Yelled Matiya suddenly. "What about Fret?"

The looks he got varried from Matiya's scowl to Tibbers and Jack's appalling attempt at not making eye contact.

"What about Fret?" Momchillo asked through gritted teeth. And for a moment Matiya was filled with righteous fury.

"Just because you don't care about him!" He snapped. "We left Redwall to bring him back. I'm not leaving without him!" He scrambled the ropes they had been tugging low with the worthiness of his species.

Momchillo growled. "Idiot. What an idiot!"

* * *

The rat swung at Fret first and likely would have killed him in one move had the ferret not managed to flatten himself backwards. The dagger stuck in the wood, and the rat left it there swinging bare-pawed he dealt a mighty blow to Fret's nose. He followed up by grabbing him by the throat and squeezing cruelly.

He had forgotten Grey, and while he himself was no warrior, if not for his mismatched buckteeth Fret would likely have died.

The black rat hollered as the smaller one's teeth tore into his shoulder. His grip loosened and Fret managed to slash open his cheek, creating three, short gashes on his face. Acting quickly, the rat kicked the ferret off of him, and tore his shoulder out of Grey's mouth. Pain fueled his power and with a vicious backhand the rat tumbled away.

Fret helped Grey to his feet as the black rat freed his dagger.

"What do we do?" Grey whimpered.

Fret noticed that they were right in front of the staircase.

"Run!" He yelled, dashing forwards and up the ship with speed he had not known he had. Then again he had never quite felt fear like this before either. He reached the cabinin record time and vaulted up, he snatched the trapdoor and prepared to slam it shut. Grey burst through, panting madly and Fret slammed the door shut as the black rat's face came into view. Then he bolted it shut and breathed deep sighs of relief.

"Frettie, are you okay?" Grey asked tenatively.

Fret nodded.

"Okay. Let's go find Sharpie." He said simply.

* * *

Sharpfur was in the same spot as before. He willed his body to move, to help, to do something... The look of pain and fear in the black rat's eye froze him once more. Why couldn't he move? He had hurt people before. Once, he had pinched Grey's belly until the rat had cried, yet that hadn't frozen him and he actually cared about Grey. Why couldn't he just move?

He managed to shift his paw slightly and promptly slipped on a pool of blood. He landed hard on his rump and the sudden feeling of something helped him regain control of his body. And it was a good thing too, since at that moment a black rat with a dirk that looked remarkably like his, noticed his existence.

* * *

Going back through the chaos was the hardest thing Matiya had ever done. The stench of death was thick and heavy and made his head spin around. He could see no familiar faces, probably since every face was splattered heavily with blood and gore. He thought he saw Threeclaw once, but he hoped it was not the stoat, for what he had seen was a writhing corpse. He stumbled forwards as a horrible thought gripped his mind. What if Fret was dead? He shook his head wildly and continued. The heroes never died-he tried to assure himself. But that was a lie. Felldoh had died. Boar the Fighter had died. Skarlath the hawk... The list went on and on.

It was then that he noticed Fret.

* * *

Fret spotted Sharpfur, scrambling and slipping away from a black rat. The weasel's face radiated a panic that had not been there before. Then again neither had the threat of death.

"Sharpie!" Grey yelled in anguish, trying desperately to reach his friend. Sharpfur dodged another knife and lashed out, sinking his sharp little teeth into the rat's stomach, his head tearing from side to side. Grey fell trying to get to him.

"Fret!" Fret turned and Matiya was scrambling towards him. "Fret, we're leaving. Come on we're at the dinghy! We're going home!"

Home. Redwall. It was so close he could feel it. Don't think. Just go home.

"Help!" Sobbed Grey as a rat advanced on him, dirk drawn. Fret froze. Go home. Forget Grey. Go home. But he could not forget Grey, Grey who had been nice to him, who didn't want him to leave.

"Fret! Come on Fret! Let's go!"

Fret barged the rat on the side. The rat turned to him and Fret lost his courage. He turned tails and ran, slipping, tripping, he ran away as the rat slipped and tripped after him. Then as he reached the dinghy he realized that he had run out of boat. He swerved to the side just as an axe plunged into the wood of the deck. He tried to run, slipped and tried to scramble backwards on all fours. The rat towered over him. Sharpfur was running forwards, tripped on something and fell overboard. The rat slammed a foot over Fret's chest, making him cough. The rodent bent to pull the axe free.

* * *

Sharpfur hit the dinghy's deck headfirst with an almighty thud. Dizzily, he reoriontated himself and blinked at the confused faces that surrounded him. He was followed by Grey Claw-who lannded right on top of him.

* * *

Matiya plunged the sword through the rat's throat, where the blade appeared on the other side,splattered in blood. The rat fell to the side. Dead.

Matiya was frozen for a moment, but the adrenaline pumping through his veins helped focus him. He reached a paw out to Fret.

"Come on. Let's put this... Behind us." He panted.

Fret reached out to take his paw. Then the ship lurched violently and Fret's skull hit the side of the boat and knew nothing more.

* * *

Momchillo was stunned. "What are you doing here!?"

Before he could get a reply the boat shook, launching the dinghy forwards. Then it swung back. Hawthorn hit the boat with her head and slumped. Jack lost balance and teetered. Tibbers grabbed him by the front and then they both fell. Then one rope snapped. The dinghy swung, now held up by the other and spilled Sharpfur and Greyclaw into the water.

"Matiya!" He shouted, holding onto the remaining rope for dear life. That was when the squirrel's form flew off the side of the ship. "Matiya!" He hollered desperately. Then the last rope snapped. The dinghy fell down and Momchillo was tossed into the air. The deck came up to meet him, it seemed. There was pain, and then he knew nothing more.

* * *

 _Footnote: There you go. Monthly Update achieved!_

 _Now I'm going to say that until later on the story will be entirely from the viewpoint of the kids. Makes surprises more surprising. Also don't worry. None of the dibbuns are dead. I just had to split them up so that they can have their separate adventures._

 _The next chapter will be pretty soon as I already have most of it written. It's gravitating towards comedy to balance out the depressive vibes you must be feeling right now._

 _Enjoy._


	13. Awakening on The River Bank

Tibbers came to slowly. His eyes cracked open slowly. His shoulder hurt more than ever and his whole body ached. He had been swimming most of the night, making sure Jack-is-lucky didn't go under. He had no idea _how_ he managed to do it, but he and the hare had made it to the riverbank before passing out. He didn't know about the others.

Rising slowly to his feet he stretched weakly. He moved to where Jack had been to check on the hare.

His and Grey's eyes met and both yelled in surprise. Tibbers lost balance stepping backwards and fell on his rump, Grey tried to bury himself into the nice winter jacket he'd dragged to the riverbank.

Jack sat up suddenly as a cold, wet thing shot itself down the front of his coat." Gaaaaah! Cold! Cold! Cold!" He tore open the front and Grey spilled out like a ragged doll. Jack screamed in surprise and jumped a foot in the air, his fur standing on end.

Grey heard the battlecries and curled into the sand, his paws over his head. "I surrender! I surrender!" He whimpered, waiting for an axe to end him.

Jack calmed his heart rate and steadied his breathing. "My hearts! Oh my... Oh my..." Then he shook himself dry and shivered. He coughed to regain his composure and straightened up. "Well chappie, you have surrendered and shall now be spared on my honor as a hare of the Long Patrol."

Grey sat up and breathed a deep sigh of relief. Then he remembered all of Sharpfur's survival plans and began grovelling. "Thankyouthankyouthankyouthankyou!"

"But! You may be useful to us a hostage in the case that one of ours is still on board your vessel, therefore you are now a captive of the Long Patrol!"

Grey opened his mouth dumbly. He had no idea what that meant. He decided more grovelling was in order. "No! Pleeeeaaaase! Anything but that! Mercy!"

 _Well I say... Vermin must have quite a high regard for the Long Patrol._ "It is the only way! Now, on your feetpaw! Chop chop!"

"Wait! We should tie him up!" Tibbers squeaked nervously. "In case he tries to run away."

"Nooooooo! Please! I'll do anything! Anything!" Grey pleaded. He hadn't even heard the shrew's suggestion.

"Now now chap! It's not too bad, wot. Just an extra precautionary measure!"

"Nooooooooooooooooooooo!"

Tibbers undid his bandages clumsily. His shoulder was a mess. The wound had a nasty shade of green around it, and the poked flesh was beginning to smell bad. "We can use this," the shrew suggested, holding the soggy bandage.

"Your shoulder looks bad. You should put some dockweed on it." Grey provided helpfully.

Tibbers gave his shoulder a glance and looked away again. "It's not important right now. Well, er, hold your paws out."

"And no funny business, wot!"

Grey nodded and did as he was bid. "Why are you bandaging my paws together? Your shoulder needs it more than I do."

Jack-is-Lucky blinked. Then regained composure once more. "Right well, uhum. Our comrades should be along this riverbank somewhere. We just have to... Find 'em. Right, Tibbers climb on my back., give the bandage here. Rat with us, wot. Now... Um... Don't try anything."

Grey nodded, then remembered something. "Where's Sharpfur?"

"The weasel, wot? Well, he's er-" The hesitation made Grey decide that it was something bad.

"Is he dead?" The rat's eyes were wide and quivering. Jack did not have the heart to hurt such a sweet little- kidnapper. _He's a kidnapper. Remember that, Jackie. Now, we need to get him moving!_

"Aye, he is, and you'll be dead too if you don't start moving." The hare said in as angry a voice as he could muster. "Now-"

Instead of cowing the rat into submission as he'd hoped to do, Grey Claw burst into tears and bawled like a newborn.

* * *

The dingy crashed into a stony bank, knocking sweet, blissfull sleep away from Hawthorn. The vole's eyes snapped open, and suddenly she was wide awake. Grollo was sprawled on the deck, half-awake himself. But the others weren't there. With a sinking feeling in her gut last night's hazy events returned.

Fret that cold-footed scum and Matiya the dumb fool. We'd have gone home if you hadn't tried playing the hero for that dumb ferret. She hissed angrily to bite back tears. They had been so close to going home. Away from the stinking vermin. She climbed up to the back of the dingy, where a bit of rope dangled weakly.

 _There's no point crying now._ She thought. _This is the river Moss. If we follow it against it's course we'll get to Mossflower woods. From there we'll find the abbey. They will help. We should be fine. We should be fine._

Then she caught sight of him, with bleared eyelids, barely clinging on to the rope, Sharpfur's claws tried desperately to fight the mounting exhaustion and retain his grip. Then he caught sight of her, and in desperation, redoubled his efforts to scramble onto the wood and escape the freezing current.

"Help me! Help! I can't swi-ack! Help!" He missed a scramble and almost disappeared into the water.

Hawthorn felt three things simultaneously. The first was a stab of pity at the pathetic sight of the desperate weasel, the next was anger, for he had been one of their captors and had prevented them from returning home. The third was a sense of justice. Sharpfur didn't talk half as tough in the water as he did on dry land. She remembered his stunned look at having ended a life and felt pity again.

"And why should I? You'd push me in quick as a flash." A small part of her wanted to cut the rope off entirely and be rid of him.

"N-no!" Unable to add anything he continued begging. "Please! Please! I can't swim. Please!"

"What happened to 'a good enemy is a dead enemy'?"

A large wave made him slip to the very edge, his claws only just holding on. "H-E-E-E-ELP ME!" He sobbed in panic.

Hawthorn hesitated a moment longer. He was their enemy. He'd have sold them without a second thought. "Why should I?" She snapped, all her anger coming to a boil.

"B-because I-I I know Mossflower! I can lead you b-back to your abbey! Just DON'T LET ME DIE!" Another large wave weakened his grip. The next would take him down the river, most likely to his death.

Hawthorn tugged at the rope, the weasel clinging on for dear life. With some effort the albino vole managed to get the little weasel onto the boat, where he shook himself mostly dry and wringed the water free from his tail, shivering madly the entire time.

"You'd have let me drown." Hawthorn complained.

The weasel scowled at her. "Yes I would have. Got a problem with that?"

"I should throw you back into the river." She growled, approaching him with clenched fists.

The weasel straightened up to his full height. Being a runt he was not much bigger than her. "Such a pity you can't pretty-face." He stuck his tongue out at her as he slapped water out of his ears.

"Yes, but he can." Sharpfur realized too late that Grollo was now fully awake. The hedgehog grabbed him by the back of the neck and raised him into the air.

"H-hey put me down! I w-was joking! Joking! Haha, come on, you can take a joke!"

"Answer my questions." The vole demanded, straightening up. "Is this the River Moss?"

"Um, no-yes! Yes it is!"

The vole glared at him. "Are you lying?"

"No! No I swear it's not the River Moss! This is the River S-styx!"

"There is no river Styx-"

"No there is-you woodlanders just d-don't call it that, yeah! You say some other name I-I dunno what that is!"

Hawthorn frowned and Sharpfur seized his advantage.

"Look, the river bends downstream, we just have to travel further down river and we'll be right back to where we started. Now put me down!"

He could be lying. But that made no difference. It was him against her and Grollo and his precious dirk wasn't there. In the end Hawthorn relented. "Leave him be Grollo. And weasel-if you so much as think of betraying us, we will dump you into the river, understood?"

 _Right, find the others and go home. Shouldn't be too difficult._

Sharpfur nodded feverishly, and as the two turned away he scowled, his fur bristling in anger. I hate woodlanders. Still, it wasn't all bad. He just needed to get his bearings and then he could ditch them.

 _Right, find Grey and go home... If there is a home to go to. If not make new home. Good plan._

* * *

Connington felt anxiety dance inside his stomach like a nest of sparrows. He hated boats enough when there wasn't a strong likelihood of death. But after the wreckage they had spotted...he was worried what they would find.

The shrews had made good speed, and One Eye had been sure they'd catch up with the vermin 'before a weeks crossed'. Well they had caught up to the vermin, but it wasn't what they had been expecting to find.

The ship had been torn apart, and floating lifelessly in pools of fading blood were countless bodies. Black rats lay lifeless more than any other beast, but vermin of every shape and colour were strewn about.

"Shrews! Dive!"

With an unnecessary cry of 'Logalogalogalolalog' the shrew dived into the water, dragging out still-twitching bodies by the dozen. A ferretmaid with a huge axe-head buried into her skull begged for mercy and Connington hardly dared refuse. It was horrible.

"Check every ferret." He asked, and as the Log-a-log conveyed the order he found he couldn't stomach the thought of Fret even being here, let alone being amongst the dead.

He had found the round metal bob he had gifted his nephew. There were no marks of fur, no blood, but no Fret either. He merely hoped the ferret didn't die.

Nothing. Dead rats. Dead weasels. Dead ferrets. But no Fret.

And a mole. It took three shrews to drag her above the water, and it took one quick kiss from a bashful hare to get her coughing and shivering.

Connington knew her. Well... He knew her father, who had most venomously objected to Constance's raising of Fret. But he doubted the Foremole would be gutted by his daughter's safe return. Though mayhaps the other parents would...

"There's one still breathing." A shrew called. "Don't look too good, weasel-fellow."

"Bring him here." The hare Captain commanded, he then fixed the others with a cold look. "Leave the interrogation to me! I've prized answers from spies, assassins, thieves, rogues-"

"Here ya go! There's three more like that." It was none other than Cheesenibbles, who looked shrunken and scared. The baby weasel's fur was dripping wet and how he had stayed afloat was a serious mystery.

"Well...have you ever interrogated a baby before?" Connington asked dryly, hoping that some humour could kill the sparrows as they fluttered up and down.

"No." The shrew proceeded to dump three more, slightly older but just as scared weasel-pups.

"I can't interrogate this! Porridge oats! I forgot they were young once."

The weasels stared with wide open eyes.

"Captain, what's the orders?"

"Well... Continue forwards for now. When she's well we'll ask the mole what happened. And then we should be able to send her back to Redwall."

* * *

Tibbers had grown up believing that vermin were heartless backstabbers. But he had also been taught that Redwall was a safe haven for all goodbeasts. He was surprised at having seen the ferret in Redwall, but hadn't let assumptions get to him. Then the ferret had apparently betrayed his friends, the people he had grown up with and that belief was rising again. And he was doubting them again.

The rat was apparently inconsolable, and though by now he had run out of tears, he walked alongside them in sullen silence. Jack had made one joke about the shape of rivers in general-which hadn't been funny- and Grey had been bawling again, whimpering about how 'Sharpie always hated water'.

He felt sorry for the rat. Especially since Jack's backtracking had failed miserably. He now believed that his weasel friend was dead, and any thought that reminded him of him sprung fresh tears.

 _Heartless indeed!_

* * *

 _Footnote: Hopefully my next 'monthly' update won't be too far off. See things aren't all bad...yet. I warn yee though, the next chapter is quite large._


	14. False Memories, A Warrior's Choice

_Sleep was such a blissful thing, thought Fret as he tried to delve back into the world of dreams. It had been a nice dream. He couldn't remember it, but it had been nice. Something to do with cheese..._

 _"Fret! Fret are you awake?" His mother called._

 _No! He wanted to snap, but snapping would only make it all the more clear that he was wide-awake and his usual self. He just wanted five more minutes... with the cheese dream preferably._

 _"Fret? Get up! It's the Feast Day!"_

 _Fret let out a groan so loud he was sure she had heard and climbed out of bed. He hated feasts, not because of the food-no he liked that, what he hated were the endless stares he got, as if everyone expected him to start jumping up and down waving a butterknife like a longsword. It was the one day each season where he couldn't avoid anyone. Where everyone was together for 'fun and merriment', while reminding him that he didn't belong in not-so-subtle ways. It reminded him that he was not one of them and never would be, no matter what his nuncle said or what his mother did._

 _"Fret are you awake?" He was now torn between answering honestly and diving back under his blankets. Each feast up until now he tried to blend in, but he had decided after the last time that it wasn't worth pretending. He was not an abbey-dweller, he was a ferret. But he was not vermin. No, vermin stole and looted and killed and murdered, Fret was just lazy...and a liar...and could use table manners..._

 _"Fret?" Her voice was coming closer, she was going to check on him. He had to make his decision now!_

 _He pounced back under his blankets, or rather attempted to. He jumped too hard and hit the head-rest just as his mother walked in._

 _Constance was big for a mouse, everyone said so, and it was so. She was tall, and more muscled than even the legendary Martin. Her fur was soft and brown. Presently she looked worried. "Are you alright?"_

 _Unfortunately, he was in no position to fake sleep, so rubbing his head he answered that he was 'fine'. The last thing he wanted was to be molly-coddled where everyone could see. This had the opposite effect he wanted._

 _"Are you sure? That jump looked mighty painful." Constance was also the only person who he couldn't lie to. Somehow, she just saw right through him. She stopped grinning and gave him a worried look. "The feast's not so bad."_

 _"Yeah." Fret agreed. "The food is good." Just nothing else._

 _"It's not going to be like last time."_

 _"No." It's going to be worse._

 _"You'll try your best to not draw attention to yourself."_

 _"Obviously." And have everyone stare at you anyways because you were trying to avoid attention._

 _"This time it's going to be great!"_

 _"Yes." If great meant being humiliated and/or punished, than yes, yes it was going to be amazing._

 _"I mean, everyone's more or less used to you. And it's not like anyone new is coming. I mean we do this every season-"_

 _At that moment Jon Connington burst into the room, looking like he had just run all the way from the abbey. They lived in the gatehouse, and he probably had, to be fair._

 _"Bad news! Skip's coming."_

 _"He came last season and we didn't have any problems with him." Constance said. The first time he had come was five seasons ago and well..._

 _*Flashback*_

 _"That is my son you cretin! Point another sharp object at him and you will wish you were sorry!" Constance shouted, her fist repeatedly colliding with the otter's nose, while Connington watched from the background making awkward, half-hearted gestures of interference."_

 _*Flashback*_

 _"No, not the local Skip. Our Skip, the one from before...all this." He gestured at the gatehouse, but Fret was sure he had meant to point at him. He didn't like his nuncle much. Jon Connington always seemed to try too hard to understand him. He gave him presents every time he left the abbey, and they ranged from a stuffed otter he had mauled in his sleep, to a round metal bob with a string attached that did absolutely nothing but distracted the mind for a relatively long period of time._

 _Constance's eyes widened. "Does he-"_

 _"Well...He knows I have a nephew just not..."_

 _"That I'm a ferret."_

 _"Well...yes, but that's not the point. The point is he's coming and well I thought you ought to...be told." Connington was everything his sister was not. He was smaller than even Fret with large ears and eyes and fur that was a dull shade of grey. Presently his tail swished about behind him as he stood with his mouth open. Fret knew this gesture to mean that he was frightened or nervous. He saw it a lot when he and his mother were in the same room._

 _Constance waved away the worries. "It's fine. We handled one Skipper, we can handle another, all otters are the same."_

 _"Yes but you know how he gets and in the past, I mean Rowl-" He hopped backwards with a squeak as Constance snapped at him._

 _"I remember Rowland too. You don't need to remind me of him, and neither does he. Now Fret brush up a bit. We'll be waiting downstairs for you."_

 _"Oh and Bella wants to see you." Connington pointed at his sister._

 _"I didn't do anything!" Fret snapped immediately. Bella the Badgermum had never liked him much. Or at least she gave off that vibe. "Sorry. Force of habit."_

 _Constance frowned. "Will you be alright on your own for a bit?" Constance asked, chewing her lip._

 _"I know the way to the abbey." He nimbly dodged the question. That was something Constance had not been able to pin him at. Yet. It can't be worse than last time anyways. Last time had really been the worse. Utterly the worst. The cream pie issue hadn't even been his fault. But as the only one in Redwall who's very kind was inclined to do vile things, he naturally got the blame._

 _They left, and as soon as they did the ferret slumped dejectedly. This was going to be a huge pain in his backside, he was sure about that. But there was no way to avoid it, and if he suddenly disappeared than he would get the more suspicious members of the abbey all riled up. That had happened when he had been five, and there really was nothing scarier than a one-eyed hare finding you while you slept all curled-up in a cupboard._

 _Fret was taller than most of his peers, and thin, not due to being underfed but simply because his kind tended to gravitate toward lanky builds. They also tended to gravitate towards villainous pursuits but that was not his problem. He wore a black habit, simply because he liked the contrast in his fur. The black mask, ears and paws, the white face. Besides it was either that or a bright red colour and everyone else usually wore that one anyways._

 _He left the gatehouse, remembered to lock it, then strolled casually towards the abbey that was both his home and the place he hated the most on earth. Lucious and big, and made entirely out of the red bricks that gave it it's name. It represented lots of things that Fret didn't. Honesty, well his lies had never really hurt anyone, and it's not like they believed him in the first place. Chivalry, Fret thought chivalry was being a show-off and to be fair most of the time it was. And kindness, he wasn't evil but people just got on his nerves so much. He snapped almost all the time and while not trying to be unkind he certainly didn't fit into being 'kind' either._

 _Suddenly something bright red and burly fell on him. "Hello Frettie, how are you on this fine morning?" It was one of his least favorite people on earth. Matiya. The squirrel represented everything what Redwall was, and naturally was drawn to his complete opposite._

 _"Don't you have a nut to crack!" Fret snapped, trying and failing to push him off._

 _"Nope, all eaten over winter. So, looking forwards to the feast?"_

 _"Get off of me!"_

 _"Where are your manners?" The squirrel tugged lightly at his ear. It didn't hurt him physically but dealt a huge blow to his ego._

 _"You're so funny. Now get off."_

 _"Not until you say please."_

 _"Matiya!"_

 _"I shan't do nothing until you say please."_

 _"Please!"_

 _"Rightey. I shan't do nothing!" The squirrel laughed at his own joke and rolled off of him. "I heard we're getting some new visitors. Otters from Southward."_

 _At that moment Fret's least favourite person alive strolled forwards. He was a mouse and looked a bit like Connington (they were both diminutive anyways) except he had way bigger ears. "Halt vermin fiend! You may not pass until you tell us your villainous plot of today!"_

 _"I don't have a villainous plot." Fret snapped, sitting back up. At one point he had played with them almost every day, but that had been before they had all learned what his kind were famous for. And anyways it was not like they had been the best of friends to begin with..._

 _"Oh but you do! You have a history of these games in fact! Remember when we wer what, eight?"_

 _That had been the age they had stopped playing together. And Fret remembered it clearly._

 _*Flashback*_

 _"But my dad worked hard on those." Complained Grollo._

 _"We're only tasting one." Fret snapped back. Even back then they had irritated him beyond measure._

 _"He's right. I mean we're going to have some anyways. This is just a little extra." Matiya agreed._

 _They watched as Momchillo lead away Grollo's father, Redwall's chief cook, and then scampered into the kitchens. There they were, perfect, sweet and juicy wallnut-cream-filled pies. All of them licked their drooling lips eagerly. Fret, being the tallest, plucked a single pie from the pile and offered it to Grollo._

 _The hedgehog hesitated, grabbed it, then hesitated again. "I think we should just put it back and leave."_

 _"But we already grabbed it."_

 _"We'll have it at the feast Fret."_

 _"Fine, if you don't want it, I do." Fret tugged at the pie. Grollo refused to let go._

 _"No! Please just put it back! Matiya tell him!"_

 _"But we're already here!"_

 _"No!"_

 _Fret tugged again, the pie ripped in two and the ferret fell backwards, bringing the whole pile of pies down on top of him. When he emerged through the rubble he found Grollo's father glaring down at him. Naturally the others had all blamed it on him._

 _*Flashback*_

 _"Then there was the time you misplaced the olive oil and the elderberry cordial. That was both funny and painful to watch."_

 _Grollo, the plump hedgehog had joined them. "There was the time you locked my dad in the oven."_

 _"There was that time your mother beat up my mother." Matiya added to the count._

 _"None of them were my fault!" Fret snapped back. He stood up. "Anyhow it's not like you care." He tripped over Momchillo's outstretched paw and fell on his face, just as a somewhat old otter bounced forwards with merry delight, accidentally crushing Fret underfoot in his apparent excitement._

 _"Oh, you're not dear old Jon. You certainly look like him." He winked at Momchillo, who gazed up at him with slight confusion. Matiya, in Fret's opinion, looked like an idiot as he gaped at the otter's well-defined body of thick muscles and scars. "Say, are you my dear sweet nephew I've heard so much about."_

 _"Jon Connington?" Came Fret's slightly muffled voice. The otter stepped off of him, and not looking at who he was talking to he straightened himself up, letting Fret roll back into a sitting position._

 _"My brother in arms. My number one mate. My-"_

 _"Yeah. I'm your nephew." Fret said bluntly._

 _Only now did the Skipper take note of him, and his jaw dropped and did the familiar wide-eyed stare of the woodlanders. "B-but you're-"_

 _"Adopted nephew, if you prefer."_

 _"DIIIIE VERMIIIN!" The otter lunged all of a sudden, and a spear formed in his paw, impaling the ferret. The children around him morphed into cruel, laughing faces.  
_

The ferret sat up so quickly he felt the blood rush to his brain as his paws shot out against a wall to steady himself. The whole room was rocking from side to side. It was small and dark and the ferret let out a small whimper. The scariest thing was that he knew nothing.

* * *

Matiya came to coughing a large amount of water. So much water he wondered how he was even awake to begin with. Getting weakly to his feet the squirrel found to his delight that he was apparently unhurt. He shook himself mostly dry, and searched the surroundings. No Momchillo, no Grollo, no Hawthorn... no Fret. They had been going home! A part of him wanted to sit and cry, but that would get him nowhere, and anyhow warriors were made of tougher stuff. No tears were needed, only blood and sweat. And a sword, but he didn't have one now anyways. The river must have washed him ashore, for it coursed and twisted like a snake besides him. Well, the Spirit of Martin was defenitely looking out for him today! He did a few quick stretches to make sure he was in mint condition, clicked his neck and punched his fist into his waiting palm.

"Right, find the others, get them back to Redwall. Forget this all ever happened. Good plan." He marched forwards, picking up a large stick he could use as a weapon in case the need arrised. That was when he spotted the large trail of blood that lead deeper into the forest, standing out vividly against the snow. It could have been anything, and normally he'd run, but after all he had seen he knew he had no way to tell whether the beast at the other end was friend or foe. As silently as he could Matiya followed the trail.

 _Please don't be Momchillo. Don't be Hawthorn, Rosebrush, Tibbers, Grollo or Jack. Or Fret. Or the rat Grey._.. he had been nice. If it was Sharpfur he'd put him out of his misery, but with how much blood had been spilled he doubted he'd be able to do anything beyond that.

It was none of the ones he had thought of. His white fur soaked in crimson, the stoat looked half-dead and half-alive, his throat torn open and still bleeding. His eyes were lost and wandering, but once they noticed Matiya they grew wide with fear. Weakly, the swords-master pleaded, one paw wringing in front of him, the other clamped against his bleeding wound. The squirrel bit his lip, he was no healer, and either way he doubted he could do anything. Except maybe end his suffering... warriors did that a lot, right?

He walked forwards, stick raised, ready to be brought down with all the force he could muster. Then he locked eyes with the stoat and felt both courage and the twig, fall. The enormity of ending a life, even if one was probably already on their way to the Dark Forest, was enormous. The stories made it sound easy... effortless. A single sword-thrust. They never talked about eyes begging for help. They didn't talk about how hard it actually was.

 _"Yer pretty tales are all a load of dung!"_ He heard Sharpfur cackle.

Matiya fell to his knees. "I-I'm not a healer, but if we put some snow on it the cold should er, slow the blood flow."

Threeclaw's other paw fell to the ground. Matiya chewed his lip and looked around. If he left now the stoat would die, and if the stoat died well that was a sort of justice...but Matiya would walk away with the pleading look of his eyes forever buried into him. No, he had to do this. Warriors saved more than they killed... the tales had never talked about saving vermin but they were dung anyways.

* * *

Momchillo came to with a head that beat like a drum. The gentle swaying told him he was on a boat, but who's vessel and where they were going were beyond him. His wrists were cold from the cruel metal that bound them together. The place stunk of death and decay. He glanced around. Silvertongue had a bloody lip and a black eye, and his paws were shaking, his harp had been slammed over his head so that it's poor remains hung around his neck like an ugly necklace. His wife, Momchillo could not remember her name, was rocking too and fro, with eyes that were wide with worry. None of her children were there. There was the old and stooped and wrinkled healer, breathing weezily in a corner, while Deathglare lay on his back, a paw over his eye. Copious amounts of blood flowed around and his paw and dropped to the floor.

"Where are the others?" He ventured to ask, to noone in particular.

The mother weasel sobbed into her knees and Silvertongue gave him a hard look, before replying anyways. "Dead. All dead. They got the survivors, that's us, and threw them all here."

"B-but no! That's not possible! We were escaping and-"

"I saw the bodies!" He snapped. "I saw my babes piled up in front of me like flesh over a fire. Don't give us you _precious hope_ , mouse! Hope will only destroy us more!" Tears glistened in his eyes, and he struggled to hide them behind his anger.

Momchillo shrank and fell silent. He was certain that their new captors, whoever they were, were worse. The Honest Bunch hadn't killed anyone...or at least not during their stay. He couldn't help but stare at the couple, one crying openly, the other only just holding back. And he felt his heart rend as thoughts of his own family came to mind. He cried openly, for down here in the darkness noone he cared about could hear him.

* * *

 _Footnote: You know I really don't want this fic to be depressing and suspenseful (but you know...it is). My writing style is usually bubbly (I think so anyways), which is taken to the max in Hercules and more or less removed from this XD Interestingly the both serve as 'experiments' to try out things that may or may not appear in the Stories of Saras at some time. :P That said this isn't a lab rat, and now has a working plot!_

 _I was torn between redoing the earlier chapter and continuing as is. In the end I decided on the latter, but by that point I had already written a good chunk of the remake (which would have been a tad bit less depressing), which actually lends itself nicely to Fret's current situation. Which I expect you to figure out :P_

 _I'm also open to ideas for cover art (I'm an artist, not Picasso (but I don't like Picasso anyways), but I can draw a few shapes XD) if you have any, because my profile picture... really doesn't suite the story. If you know an image I could use instead that would also be useful._

 _Also since I do four updates a week pretty smoothly, I think you might see a bit more Black and White (though Hercules is still monthly)._

 _Enjoy!_


	15. Amnesia and False Tales

As the door came creeping forwards, he tried his hardest to make himself invisible...not like that was possible anyways. But it gave him some hope. If whatever was coming couldn't see him, and seeing him in this darkness would have been difficult to begin with, well it couldn't hurt him, could it? Unfortunately his efforts were in vain, for the figure had brought a candle.

And what a figure it was! Taller than him, and broader, a beast built of fur and muscle. With wind-swept, and water-soaked clothes, and a cutlass hanging from a belt. His teeth were long and jagged and yellow, and his eye, for the other was hidden under a silken patch, glinted of dirty ice. His fur was dark brown, and was speckled with what looked like dried blood. His luscious green cape hung from his shoulders, and was the one thing he had that was not tarnished in some way. His long, worm-like tail was an oily grey, and it's tip rested on the handle of his cutlass. He held in one paw the candle, and in the other what looked like food.

"Glad you're awake. Here, have some grub." The rat tossed the bread at him, and his eager paws caught it mid-air. It turned out to be a loaf of bread, plain and stale, but to his hungry jaws, the greatest delicacy. While he tore into the loaf with savage zeal, the large rodent shut the door behind him, and set the candle down on the floor, before seating himself at the foot of the bed. For a while the only noise was the swaying of the room, and the ferret's hungry chewing.

Once the loaf had been devoured, the ferret found himself staring at his apparent savior. Who then spoke.

"What on earth where you doing with that load of bandits?"

"Er..." _Lie! Think of something good. Blame someone else!_ But no excuse came to him and a moment later he found himself dumbly answering the question with one of his own. "What bandits?" The rat raised an eyebrow. For a moment there was something like cunning in his eye, but then it turned to concern.

"The cannibals, remember? I don't know what you were thinking of by running away. They would have eaten you!"

"Er... I-I don't remember." He admitted, almost pleadingly. Then a sudden fear swept over him. Why had he been running away? What had he done?

"Nothing?" The rat looked stunned.

The ferret shook his head weakly. "You wouldn't either if you got hit on your head as hard as me!" He snapped back defensively. He couldn't admit weakness to someone he had only just met.

This elicited a chuckle from the rodent.

"It's not funny! I could have been...scarred." He finished lamely.

"There's nothing wrong with a good scar little Whimper, it puts hair on your chest."

"Whimper?" His name hadn't been Whimper, it had never been whimper it had been fr...fr...fre..ferret? His name hadn't been ferret...but he couldn't remember being called Whimper...then again he couldn't really remember anything.

"You don't know anything do you?"

It hurt him to do it, but he shook his head in all honesty. The rat stood up, and left the candle where it was. "I'll be right back. Don't you move a muscle."

* * *

Matiya stepped back and vomited. He had done all he could for the stoat and even then he was not sure had done enough. Snow had helped stop the bloodflow, and he had found a needle amidst the vermin's clothes, with which he had delicately sewn the wounds closed. Somehow he doubted he would wake up, but the squirrel could now rest easy knowing that as a true abbeybeast he had done the most he could to help the poor creature...even if the poor creature would never live to thank him for it. Or thank him for it even if he did live. He was weak, and tired, but couldn't have held back the contents of his stomach even if he wanted to. There had been so much blood. He shivered. The stories they had all been raised on back at the Abbey had mentioned the blood of course...but he had never quite imagined it...the way it was.

"Right. It's going to get dark. And that means it's going to be colder, which means... fire! Yes! I just have to make a fire, and then I can rest a bit and try and find the others." _And if I'm lucky then maybe they'll see the smoke and get to me first._ Matiya did not consider that his friends weren't the only ones who could find him...

* * *

The rat was back faster than he had anticipated. In his paws he held a tome. He sat on the bed, taking up almost twice the space the ferret was, and threw it open at the first page. It was an old portrait of a ferret, a dagger in her paw and a grin on her face.

"Is that me?"

The rat burst out laughing. "Don't you know what's between your legs? No, haha, this is your mother."

The ferret cocked his head to the side. Mother... her name was Con... Con... Con something, and she had been a big rat... if he remembered right.

"It's not surprising you don't know her." He said, suddenly solemn. "She was taken... many years ago."

"Oh..." He was surprised by how little this hurt him. Surely he should have had some kind of lingering affection for her somewhere. All children did love their mothers, after all. Was he even a child, or just small? "How old am I?"

"You should be...about ten seasons, give or take?"

Huh, so he was a child...

"This is Mad-Eye Marik. Your father and my best mate." He didn't recognize the quite figure that stared back at him from the old tomb. He looked a lot more like the first ferret, than this muscled, silent, brute.

"Right." If this was his father's best mate that meant he was safe.

"But, where are my manners? I am Captain Trammun Clogg! Captain of the Black Death and your dearest matey!"

The ferret blinked. He had heard that name before. Good, something he was familiar with!

"Would you like to see where we are?"

The ferret nodded. Maybe he'd even find something that could remind him of himself. Or maybe the headache would just go away.

"Right then get up you landlubber, and I will show you." The rat said with a cheery laugh and a smack on the back that probably hurt more than intended.

Whimper did as he was told and followed the rat out the door and into the darkening sky, ignoring the fact that the name 'Whimper' still felt so strange to him...

* * *

The moment Connington had been dreading since they had found the mole came, and the mouse's heart steeled itself. He would know, at last, what had happened. They had not found any trace of Fret...which he decided was a good thing. The sight of his nephew's corpse would have broken him harder than a battle-axe.

The weasels they had tied, not because they were any threat, but rather because it seemed safer than letting them run around on a deck full of sharp weapons.

It had taken a lot of soup, and a warm fire to get Rosebrush back to some form of health. And now, as they made camp for the night, One Eye, the Log-a-Log and Jon Connington sat before her, ready to hear what she had to say.

"Oit wazz Frettie." She said after a long silence.

"No." Connington snapped. Nonononononononono! It was not Fret! It was not Fret! Fret was... he wasn't evil. Yes he was rude and snappy and selfish and...None of that made him evil!

"Oit wazz! Oi dunno whoi 'e don it but 'e did." She whined.

"Did what?" One-Eye pressed for answers. Connington didn't know how much more he could listen to.

"'E sold us to slayvers. At the Gurt Big Feeost, oi and the odders went to bring 'im back. And then we got captured coz Matiya didn't wont t'layve without 'im. And then we was travellering downroiver and they tied oz to a mast and dey were moin...and then dere was a foight and we wazz going to escape, and den Matiya didn't wont to layve widout Frettie and then...Then I dunno know wot 'appened. We were going t'go home but, b-b-but-"

She could go no further and burst into tears. Log-a-Log got up to comfort her. Connington, too, rose but he went the other direction.

It hurt. That was the only way to describe what it felt. Like somebeast cruel had decided he had nothing better to do but crush his insides. Fret, the silent little babe he had first found in Constance's arms. Fret, the dibbun that had caused no end of mischief back at the abbey. That had been natural...all dibbuns went through that stage... Fret, who had never expressed joy except when he had no choice but to. Fret who had snapped as a way of greeting. Fret... The ferret's face swam in his mind. He wondered what his nephew felt like now... Was he satisfied with his revenge? The children at Redwall had blamed him for practically everything. He had always denied it, even when he had been caught buried under the honeycakes... He had always said the others hated him...that they blamed him for everything because they didn't like him... Sometimes Connington put it down to him not wanting to disappoint Constance... but other times he was inclined to agree that his nephew was the scapegoat. The Skipper had almost run him through, and that had definitely not been Fret's fault!

But which was this? Fret wouldn't have sold his peers. He wasn't a vermin, and anyhow it wasn't like he knew any vermin to sell to. He had left the abbey walls once. He was too young to know how the world worked...

"Connington." One-Eye had followed him.

"It wasn't Fret's fault." The mouse repeated stubbornly, and believed the words entirely.

The hare raised his arms defensively. "Never said it was mate. But..."

"You're suggesting my nephew was behind all that bloodshed?" Connington snapped. Really he was surprised he and Fret didn't get along so well.

"No, I'm saying that well... the mole couldn't have been wrong about _everything_."

"There was a fight." The mouse allowed.

"This is serious. There are more lives at stake than just your nephews'."

"I know that!"

"And if she is telling the truth?"

Connington shook his head vehemently. "She is saying what she _thinks_ is the truth. Fret is no vermin! And I _know that!_ "

"And if he is?" The hare insisted.

Connington had no reply to that, the mouse turned away, breathing heavily. "He isn't. He just... isn't."

"But if he tries to stop us-"

"He is coming home. I will _drag him back_ if I have to!" He ended the conversation there, and walked off. If what Rosebrush had said was true...he may very well have to.

* * *

 _Footnote: And Fret's latest issue is... amnesia. It was the most effective way to explore vermin nature from Fret's perspective. I think it was decided that he wants to go back, but the situation never lends itself to it. Now though he doesn't have any knowledge of Redwall, which means he will be... a bit less conflicted. The reason Trammun Clogg strikes Fret as familiar is because my OC is named after one of the vermin (arguably the funniest) in Martin the Warrior. Which Fret is familiar with because abbey history.  
_

 _Now Rosebrush or Roseheart (I think her name varied a few times this story...) might be the most dislikable character in the story (for now), but given her situation I think it's unfair to be too harsh on her. She is at the end of the day, still a child, and children are prone to make mistakes (more so than other people, but it varies), and they tend to have a less insightful disposition. Which is why so far Matiya is the only guy who has a sense of how complicated Fret is._

 _Also the cover image is from Berserker88. As he put it 'artist's interpretation of Fret being woken up for the Feast.' I thought it fit with Fret's 'snappy' attitude and is also in Black and White, which is fitting.  
_

 _Enjoy!_


	16. Another Night Of Winter

Whimper was sure he had never been on a boat like this before. Smaller ones perhaps, the dinghys, maybe even a raft or two, perhaps a smaller version of this, but the Black Plague was just... so much grander than anything. But that was ridiculous! He lived here! And according to Clogg, had done so for his entire life. The galley was so wide it stretched to both sides of the river, and it was a miracle that it didn't scrape against the earth underneath. It was made of rope and staircases, and cabin after cabin after cabin. There was a dark well in the center of the lowest deck that he had tried to peer through and had called down to hear his voice echo downwards, but Clogg had hastily pulled him away from it.

Everybeast was a stranger to him, but they all greeted him like their captain, with salutes, low, sweeping bows with many-a-flourish. He tried to hear and hold all their names, but that was practically impossible. He could recognize Scringewhiskers, for his bright yellow cloak and flourishing bows. He could smell Fleaback from a mile away, and the rat was easily recognizable up front as well, for noone else had that many gold teeth. The only one who refused to bow or salute or even acknowledge his existence beyond looking down at him, was Darkhide, who sent shivers up his spine whenever their eyes met. But Clogg had explained that she did that to everybody. Yet strangely still, their names were as foreign to his tongue as his own. They didn't feel like he knew them. But he supposed that was just his headache.

"Remember anything?" Clogg pressed after he had met yet another important captain of the Black Plague.

Whimper shook his head. "No."

"Hmm... maybe my cabin will jog your memory. I mean mate, you were practically raised there." And so the rat led the way and Whimper followed.

This place was familiar. Lit by a sole candle and smelling faintly of paper, with many-a-book piled onto a small desk that had been shoved into a corner. "Well?"

Tentatively he went for the nearest book and opened it. Inside was a picture of a red palace-like-structure, with high walls made of red bricks. It looked familiar. In the next page there was a map of the inside, and that too was familiar. He flipped the book closed and read the title. "The Cursed Abbey." He had heard of this tale before... distantly. Cursed Abbey... yes, yes he had heard _that_ before. He turned to Clogg, who for a moment was staring at him with keen interest, as if seeing him for the first time. "I think I remember this." He pointed at the book.

"Then that's our solution." The rat scuttled behind him, pulled out a large chair from the shadows and shoved it in front of the desk. He dumped the ferret into it's soft folds, and then handed him the book. "Read up, and you should be back to normal in no time. Reading was always your favorite thing to do."

"It was?" That sounded strange. He didn't think he was a reader.

"It still is. Now I'm sorry I can't be of more help to you, but I need to go now. You know, Captain-ing is a pretty difficult job. Enjoy your reading. I will be back soon." And then with a gentle ruffle between his ears, the rat took his leave.

Whimper shrugged and opened the book. Perhaps it would help.

* * *

"It's getting dark." Hawthorn complained. "How much longer till the river bends?" They had been walking all day and had found no trace of anyone, nor a single bend. It was getting darker and colder, and the vole wished now more than ever that she was back in Redwall, with it's warm fires and comfortable beds. How was she meant to sleep on snow and silt?

"It shouldn't be much further." Sharpfur assured. _It shouldn't be much further until I can make a break for it._ He was beginning to understand why Fret had not wanted to return to the abbey. If everyone was like this vole Sharpfur would have jumped off the royal red walls seasons ago! She couldn't go a single minute without whining or complaining! Hellgates and people called _him_ a brat.

Grollo trudged along behind them, his head hanging down in misery. It felt almost strange to see him without Matiya or Momchillo-the three had been practically inseparable. _Well, soon we shall all be back together again and then we can forget all this ever happened._ Then the hedgepig spoke, and made Sharpfur jump.

"There isn't a bend in the river is there?"

The weasel composed himself. "Y-yes there is! It's not much further I swear."

"You've been swearing all day. Either you have no idea where we're going or you're taking us-"

"Back to your abbey-" Sharpfur snapped nervously.

"No! This isn't the way back! I'd have remembered seeing stuff like this if we were heading the way back. And there was no bend in the river anyhow. The boat never turned much."

Now the weasel was glaring at him. _I will not be caught lying by the likes of you hedgepig!_ "Okay then, _you_ lead the way! _You_ find my family! Go on you clever old woodlander, you definitely know this place better than me. The villainous vermin! I'm no doubt leading you into a grand ditch!" _Ha! That should fool ya!_

The hedgehog glared back, but could not be sure whether he was being sincere or not. He turned to Hawthorn. "I say we go back. We'll find something, anything. You know the grown-ups are looking for us. You know it's only a matter of time-"

"And won't it be a shorter amount of time if we walk _towards_ them?"

"Shut it weasel!"

Hawthorn bit her lip. They had been walking all day, and truth be told she was hungry. What she would give for a loaf of bread... On the one hand Grollo was convinced that the weasel was cheating them, and while likely, Sharpfur did want to find his family so he was probably leading them in the right direction. But what was the right direction? She had never been this far away from Redwall before, or at least not alone. Which way _was_ the right direction? Grollo was right, their parents would be looking for them. Brother Connington had scouted Mossflower for Fret-surely their own parents would do no less. Which meant it was only a matter of time... But how long would they last in the ice and snow with no food to eat? "I think we should stay here." She said finally. "We should make a fire." She added. "We'd freeze without one. And food. We need to find food."

Sharpfur almost jumped for joy. Boy were woodlanders _dumb!_ He'd just wake up early one morning and then they'd be no more problem. He restrained himself from rubbing his hands in glee. It would not do to arouse suspicion. Or rather, more suspicion than they already had for him.

"Right, so let's head into the woods and find some wood and make a fire... and if we're lucky we'll find something to eat, and then we can just sit tight and wait for rescue."

It took Sharpfur all the self-restraint in his possession to not burst out laughing at the absurdity of her plan. _You poor naive little princess._

"So. Let's go then." She said, pulling up her sleeves and marching into the woods looking far more determined than she felt.

Grollo eyed the weasel. "I just want you to know. Pull something past us, and you'll wish we never dragged you out of that river."

"Don't worry." Sharpfur said with a wicked grin. "I'm an honest fellow."

And so together the three vanished into the darkness of the woods, the falling snow and rain covering their tracks behind them.

* * *

Connington did not sleep. He sat down against a tree, his eyes wide and unmoving. Rosebrush, Roseheart-whatever her name was- was being escorted home by a small group of the younger Guosim (who had been too scared to go further but dare not admit it) and a hare who was sent to explain the situation-in as soft a way as possible.

There was just one thing that made no sense to him. One missing part. Constance had fainted and lost herself before Fret had vanished. So it was not due to his nephew's disappearance but something else. Perhaps it was linked, perhaps not. Perhaps he had never really known his nephew. But from all he had seen Fret had loved her. He had run to her after school, had clung to her side until he was big enough to walk on his own, and had always come home and ranted at her for hours about the unfairness of everything. She was his mother. It was as simple as that. But why had Constance fallen? What had made her stop?

He was taken away from his thoughts when a scout, dripping wet and panting, exploded from the water. A look of fright and fiendish glee present in his eyes.

"I found something!" He exclaimed to noone in particular. Several people muttered that they were sleeping, One-Eye was getting up groggily. But Jon was wide awake and clinging onto every word. "A boat! Huge! Biggest- _pant_ -thing _-pant_ -you'll ever- _pant_ -see!" The shrew took a humongous breath of air. "It's got to be what we're looking for! Only boat out for miles and miles! And it's a slave ship."

One-Eye was now wide awake. "Does it have a name?"

"Black- _pant_ -Plague." Then the shrew collapsed and began snoring loudly.

Log-a-Log stepped up and began shouting orders and commands. The rafts were being fitted, and suddenly it was as if morning had come already. Connington stood in the middle of it all and clutched, unconsciously, at the round metal bob he had gifted his nephew so long ago.

Soon everything would be back to normal... hopefully.


	17. Children Again

Matiya hit the rocks against each other as hard as he could, and watched in dismay as the hard-earned sparks withered and floated away. Growling in frustration the squirrel gave it another try, but the result was the same. The wood, cold and damp, refused to take light. He had been trying for hours now and yet the result was always the same. A flash of colour and nothing more. _Clack! Clack! Clack!_ The sparks fluttered and floated and died again.

 _Oh well... I have time..._

* * *

Despite not wanting to arouse suspicion, Sharpfur could not resist mocking his _temporary_ companions _._ "Rescue, rescue. Oh won't you come rescue me?"

"Can you just be quiet!" Grollo snapped. "You're driving me insane!"

"Oh no!" The young weasel gasped sarcastically. "You need to be rescued from insanity as well! My my, what a pit you have fallen into young hedgepig-"

"Shut it! I didn't fall into anything!"

"Tis a very deep pit indeed."

"I'm going to slap you." He said, raising his arms in a threatening posture.

Sharpfur crossed his paws over his chest. "You shouldn't warn people you're going to hit them." He said matter-of-factedly. "Then they see it coming a seaso-"

Grollo's paw smacked the weasel hard across the cheek, knocking him off balance, and sending him tumbling into the snow. He was up a moment later, looking considerably less amused.

"Alright if that's the way you want to play!" He scooped up a ball of snow and raised it to fling at his opponent, only for one from Hawthorn to hit him in the face. Shaking the snow off him he glared at them both. "You think this is funny!? I could be freezing to death right now!"

They had been holding back their laughter up until then, but after witnessing his reaction they both burst out laughing. Sharpfur was slightly tempted to make a break for it then and there, but it was cold and dark and there was a sort of safety in numbers.

"This isn't funny!" He snapped. They continued laughing, and hot with anger and shame Sharpfur marched off, only to trip on a snow-bank. Hawthorn laughed ever-harder, but Grollo stopped abruptly. He was vividly reminded of Fret and the disastrous trip with the otters... well it hadn't really been disastrous, only the first part.

"Wait are you serious?" He asked, only for the weasel to turn back around. One snowball caught Hawthorn in the face, the other hit Grollo, and then Sharpfur was the only one laughing. Until two more snowballs hit him. Wiping the snow off his face, Sharpfur frowned deeply.

"Oh now it is on. DIE WOODLANDERS!" And then the snow was flying.

* * *

Grey flung a stone into the river, trying to make it bounce, but his efforts went in vain, and the small rock sunk like a boulder. Sharpfur had always said he was horrible at this, and the weasel himself had been an expert. Eight, seven, six bounces with a flick of the wrist, and all Grey Claw could do was nail Threeclaw on the chin. Then again Sharpie had always been better than him... at everything. He had done all the talking, fighting, and thinking. But that was normal. Their mother had always explained that some were born followers and others were leaders, it was just his luck he was born a follower, he doubted Sharpfur would get along well with another leader. He hated getting bossed around. He hated a lot of things. Water mostly. That had been their greatest difference. For him the water was like a second home. For Sharpfur it was like Hellgates personified. Grey Claw sighed deeply and tossed another stone into the water. It would not do to dwell on the dead. Sharpfur had moved on... and for once Grey could not follow.

"You know what, maybe I should do the talking." Tibbers whispered. "You're a bit...rash."

Jack frowned. "I am not! i am merely using normal code of conduct between our creatures. That rat held us captive for I don't know how long and you expected me to go easy on him? No sah! And in my defence, wot. I did not expect him to take it so harshly. I mean... they don't really care about each other do they? Well, not like you or I."

"That's true. But we're stuck with him, and I hate looking at anybeast _that_ sad."

The hare nodded wisely. "We just need to get him to stop thinking about his mate." He assumed the famous 'thinker pose'. "Now... how shall we do it?"

* * *

After what seemed like eternity Matiya's stones truck true, and the sparks set the wood alight. It was slow going at first, but after much nervous blowing and poking, he had managed to get the flames crackling. It reminded him of Redwall. Of home, of safety. And of the glorious foods and drinks. What he would give for a Feast... or to go back to the last feast. He would have done so much differently. He would have stopped Fret from falling, preferably. Or wouldn't have gone and lead all his peers into a trap. He'd have left it to the responsible ones. He shook his head clear of those thoughts. The past was pointless to look back to. He couldn't change it. Right now all he could do was get some sleep. And hope that tomorrow would be a better day. He glanced nervously at the barely-breathing vermin he shared his camp with and sighed. Warriors never had it easy did they?

* * *

"Okay, okay! I yield!" Sharpfur collapsed on his front, panting between fits of laughter. Their game had brought them far away from the river, to snow-covered forests new to them all. But for once none of them could think about going home . Hawthorn sat down, taking in long gulps of breath. By now they were covered in showers of snow, and had exhausted themselves completely. But it did not matter. They were happy for a few moments longer, until they had caught their breath.

Hawthorn shivered suddenly. "Is it just me or did this whole place get a lot colder?"

Sharpfur sat up. "Yeah. It's cold." He shivered violently and grinned. "That was fun wasn't it?"

"Yeah." Said Grollo, not paying attention to the question. He huddled closer to Hawthorn.

"You two are a lot better at this than Grey Cl-" He stopped suddenly. They were not better than Grey Claw! They were woodlanders! Abbeybeasts! They hated verminkind and he hated them right back! Why had he even played with them?

"I'm hungry." Grollo whimpered. The wind was picking up, and blowing icy air through the trees.

"Yeah... me too." Sharpfur subconciously crept closer to the two, intent on joining in their huddle for warmth. When he realized what he was doing he stopped suddenly and almost hit himself. They were the enemy. They always would be. He had to remember that.

"We can't stay here." Hawthorn said suddenly. "We should find shelter. A fire would be good."

Sharpfur was backing away slowly. Now was his chance. If he bolted now they would loose him.

"I can't make a fire." Grollo said in a voice as hollow as his stomach.

"Neither can I... Weas- Sharpfu-"

Suddenly the weasel caught the scent of smoke and soup in the air. "Fire!" He cried in joy, and without thinking, he tore towards it. Then Hawthorn smelled it too, and followed just as quickly, with Grollo bringing up the rear.

They came to a clearing of snow, with a cauldron bubbling over a pile of crackling logs. Two small sacks and a blanket made up the camp. It was empty, save for some prints that seemed freshly made and vanished into the woods.

"Um... hello?" Hawthorn called out tenatively. The fire was new. And if they were lucky it was somebeast on their way to Redwall. Home. They were so close to home.

Sharpfur was not thinking about home, or whom the camp belonged to. He went for one of the bags, tore it open and pulled free a loaf of bread that was still warm. With manners that would have made Fret look like an Abbot the weasel proceeded to devour the loaf, unheeding Hawthorn's protests.

"What's wrong with you? That could belong to someone!" Hawthorn gasped in shock. "You shouldn't just eat it!"

"Nobeasts here!" Sharpfur complained after swallowing a huge chunk of the bread. He then continued with a full mouth, but Hawthorn could not make out the words.

After he had finished Grollo shrugged and took a loaf from the weasel, who had now moved on to the second bag.

"Grollo! What if they're hungry? I think we scared them."

"Well he's right. I mean if they're goodbeasts they'd give it to us anyways, and if it's vermin we'd better eat quick." The hedgehog then shrugged and peered into the soup. He went a sickly shade of green, and dropped the loaf. He tried to splutter words, but could only manage to back further and further away from the cauldron.

"What is it?" Hawthorn asked.

"I-i-i-i-i-" He turned and retched into the snow. Sharpfur was paying no mind and moved on to Grollo's dropped loaf. Hawthorn felt a fear like none other clutch at her, and was frozen in place. Something was moving! Something tall and dark and menacing. Somehow, she knew it wasn't a goodbeast.

The weasel finished the last loaf, swallowed heavily, and stood up, patting his very-filled stomach. "What are you all jabbering about?" He asked, turning on the spot to find two tall vermin, decorated in black ash with white markings, staring down at him. "Oh." Instinctively he backed off, giving off small, strained gulps of nervous laughter. The figures approached. One held a saber, the other a knife Sharpfur knew was used for skinning. He peaked into the soup and saw a small, white skull, that could not possibly belong to a fish. Then he noted the blanket was made out of the same black fur the two advancing on him possessed.

Grollo steadied himself and got to his feet. Hawthorn was frozen in place, her eyes wide with terror. Sharpfur was backing away fearfully. He bent over, and picked up as much snow as he could. He rolled it into a ball. Then everything happened at once.

Grollo yelled 'run' and threw the ball of snow as hard as he could. It caught the one with the skinning knife on the head. Hawthorn turned and bolted through the forest, and Grollo tried to do the same. Whether they would have made it or not was impossible to tell, especially since Sharpfur threw himself at the feet of the one holding a saber and pleaded for mercy. This served to trip the savage before he could pursue his prey. Unfortunately, the skinner was faster than either Hawthorn or Grollo, and caught the vole by the tail, before pulling her in for a mighty backhand blow. Grollo froze, unwilling to abandon the last of his friends from the abbey, and was smacked hard on the nose for his troubles. He fell onto his back, and felt the blood gushing out. Then the cannibal brought his foot down onto his stomach and sent the air flying out of him. And then all hope of escape was lost.

* * *

"Hello chappie! You're looking quite upset!" Jack called out with the joy and energy only a hare could muster. He and Tibbers had devised an ingenious plan by which to cheer up their companion. It involved tickling, the river, a giant slab of cheese they had replaced with a pawful of snow, and snow.

"You don't need to try and cheer me up." The rat said sullenly, interrupting the ingenious plan before it had even started.. Grey Claw hopped off the rock. "I have some dockweed, if your shrew wants it."

Tibbers peaked round from his hiding place. He had known that wouldn't work! "Look, rat... we got off on the wrong footpaw-"

"Stop trying to talk to me." He said with no emotion. "I'm fine." He was not. "Now do you want the dockweed or not?" His voice cracked in the last sentence and Tibbers decided it was best to change the subject.

"Yes. I'll take the dockweed." The rat looked slightly relieved that the subject had been dropped, and walked forwards with renewed vigor.

Jack frowned and marched off to mutter to himself. "The Long Patrol manual never said anything about how to deal with depress-ed rats! No sah! I'm going to have to complain to the Junior Corporal about this!"

* * *

 _Footnote: Hey guys. So just to let you know I'll be going on hiatus for a short while, and then depending on circumstances you can probably expect my update speed to slow down. Though that bit is uncertain. So yeah, just enjoy this cliffhanger for now XD  
_


	18. A Ghostly Choice At Escape

Hawthorn paced around the small, dismal cell. The cannibals had brought them to a village of cannibals and placed them in one of the many empty huts dotted around. Two of the savages were guarding their hut, spears in paw. They were dressed in rugs of fur and had a small, smokeless fire crackling like laughter in front of them. All Hawthorn had was Sharpfur who was whining and whimpering in one corner, and Grollo who was out cold and lying on his front. But she still had her brain and hope-and that had been enough for many-a-hero. She just needed to think.

Sharpfur whimpered.

She just needed to think...

Sharpfur whimpered loudly.

She just needed... to think.

Sharfur whimpered even more loudly.

"I can't think!" She exclaimed, advancing on the weasel. "Stop whining and do something productive!"

"Like what? You can go mad with your pacing, thanks. I'd rather wallow in my misery." He snapped, and for a moment she was reminded of Fret. Were all vermin alike?

"I'm not going mad!" She exclaimed indignantly, pushing thoughts of Fret away. "I'm just thinking of a way to get us out of here!"

Despite everything, or perhaps because of it, Sharpfur laughed. "Escape? You? You've been held captive half a dozen times in the same fortnight! Good luck escaping this _mouse!_ "

"I'm a vole." She said coldly. "And I don't need your luck."

"Humph. Sure ye don't princess. Just keep waitin' fer rescue and maybe all your woodlander friends will make it out in one peace. And all the meanies will run into a ditch and die. Life _doesn't_ work that way sweetheart!" He said matter-of-factly.

"Maybe it doesn't. But it would be easier to think of a way out if I wasn't the only one doing it."

"I am thinking of a way out!" The weasel corrected scrambling to his feet so that Hawthorn had to look up at him rather than down at him. "And it involves the three Ws. Whimpering, whining and-"

"Wetting yourself? Because, that's what you've been doing for the last couple of hours."

"Why you little-" He took a step forwards and advanced with outstretched claws.

"Little what? At least _I'm_ not smaller than the rest of my kind."

That was the final straw. Sharpfur pounced, Hawthorn dodged and the weasel landed on Grollo's back.

"YEEEEEEEOW!"

The hedgehog woke with a start, while Sharpfur tugged himself free of the spines, rubbing at the multitude of cuts all over his body. "You evil mouse-thing-y-you spoilt brat-" He was shaking all over and had tears in his eyes, but Hawthorn felt no pity.

"Shut up weasel! You got violent first!"

"Violent?! I'll give you violent woodlander!" The threat would have been scarier perhaps, if he wasn't sobbing while he said it.

Hawthorn released a long cry of frustration. "Just be quiet."

Sharpfur slunk back to his corner, whimpering quietly. "I just want to go home."

Hawthorn tried very hard to act like she hadn't heard that. The stupid weasel, who had taken them away from home to begin with, who had denied them freedom...now wanted to go home. The vole was tempted to strangle him.

"We wouldn't have been in this mess if you had run while we had the chance." Grollo pointed out grumpily. "Instead you went and begged for your life."

Sharpfur continued whimpering. "I was scared! Happy? I didn't want to die."

"Cowards die a thousand times-"

"Shut up! Stupid hedgepig! I should have slit your throats while ye slept!" Again the threat would have been substantially more threatening if Sharpfur didn't sound as pathetic as he did.

Hawthorn interrupted before Grollo could even open his mouth. "Can you pick a lock?"

Sharpfur whined. "What's it to you-oh..."

* * *

Whimper sat up to a sudden swaying of the boat. The book was plastered firmly to his face. He placed his claws on either side of the great tome and gave a hard shove. In the task of freeing himself his head bounced and hit the wall. Blinking the dizziness away he stared forwards.

The candle was flickering weakly, but what really drew his eyes was the large, burly mouse, standing with arms crossed over his chest. Perhaps the scariest thing about him was the otherworldly paleness and ghostly glow. It was a miracle he did not piss himself. A fear like nothing he had ever felt crept through him and bound him in place more surely than any mortal chain. The flickering candle went out, and the only light left was the ghost's. He stood there, his eyes peering into the ferret's soul, his arms crossed as if in disappointment. Moments that felt like millennia came and went.

At last, Whimper sucked up enough courage to open his mouth, and then the ghost vanished as suddenly as it came and the candle flickered back to life.

Whimper blinked in confusion, then managed a sigh of relief, while he let his body untense and relax. He shook his head. He was just drowsy. A ghost couldn't walk up to him and do whatever it wanted, that wasn't the way ghosts worked. Right? Though the mouse had looked familiar... Perhaps it was just that all mice looked the same. He rubbed at his eyes and blinked again. Nothing. No ghost. He repeated this until he was quite certain there was no ghost. He was safe. And hungry... He wondered what the time was.

There was a barrel of apples on the deck below. He doubted anyone would mind if he went for a small bite-anyhow it wasn't like anybeast would see him. Deciding to pursue this course of action he set the book down onto the table, picked up the candle and went for an apple.

He passed the silent cabins, one after another. As he turned left he heard the sound of laughter from another cabin and overwhelmed by curiousity slunk over to hear what was being said.

"My lord. Please allow me humble self to kiss thy feetpaws until I have washed them free of dirt and dust." It was the flourishing ferret speaking to a small audience. There was the gold-toothed rat Whimper could not remember the name of and Darkhide. Both were laughing uproariously. "Oh and if yer bottom is just a tad filthy I will lick it till it shines."

Whimper wrinkled his nose in disgust and slunk off again. That 'joke' was truly unworthy to be called one.

Turning back to his goal, the young ferret stopped suddenly as the mouse ghost appeared before him once more. The same fear clutched hard at him and held him in place like an overly large paw. He wanted to scream, to call for help or better yet, plead for mercy, but his throat was blocked and his muzzle shut. The candle died in his paws. Once again the moments passed, and once again the spirit vanished. But the fear did not. Whimper stood there, shaking like a leaf in a high wind. He shook himself severely, all he needed was an apple, maybe two. Yes, two sounded better than one. And Clogg wouldn't mind. Or wouldn't notice.

Determined once more, he set off. As he walked through the maze of cabins, he came to a halt outside of one. Clogg was there, lovingly caressing a portrait. For a moment he was tempted to barge in and tell him all about the ghost-but Whimper was no weakling and anyhow it was just him being drowsy. Ghosts couldn't get to him. He continued on the way to the apple barrel. It would be morning soon, he realized with a shiver. But that was a good thing, spirits of the undead hated sunlight and the day. He scrambled down a ladder. The barrel of apples had never looked more appealing. Until, the mouse shot out from behind it, sword in paw.

* * *

Sharpfur stood, just barely reaching the lock. His claws wriggled to and fro within, and sweat trickled from his brow. The inside of the hut was as quiet as a funeral, but the tension within was unmatched in all of Mossflower history. Each one was secretly, silently praying that this might work. Hawthorn and Grollo out of a desire to return to the safety of their abbey, and Sharpfur out of a strong desire to not end up boiled in a soup. The guards outside had fallen asleep, though their fire still mocked them with a noise like laughter. It would soon be morning, but if Sharpfur was correct they'd have a good head start on the cannibals. In truth the weasel was planning on using this as his way out. The woodlanders would go one way, he would go another, and if the hedgepig and mouse got caught again it really wasn't his problem.

Then the lock gave a loud click. And in the silent night it was especially loud. They heard grumblings in some distant language, and the ound of crunching snow coming closer.

The three could only share a look of horror as the door was pushed open, and in walked the savage with the saber. He blinked groggily, not expecting them to be awake or crowded round the door. Then all three seized their one chance of escape. Sharpfur pounced on the slack arm loosely holding the saber, Grollo turned round and shoved his spines right in the vermin's face and Hawthorn had the common sense to go for his muzzle. She held it closed tightly, so that his screams were muffled, while the other two fought him tooth, claw and quill.

Sharpfur managed to prize the saber free from the cannibal's grip, and reared back, before swinging at the savage's leg. With a great muffled cry of anguish the creature keeled over, shoving Grollo's spines deeper into his front. Then with no mercy, the weasel pulled the saber free and brought it down, again and again, with each blow the beasts struggles grew weaker and weaker, and his cries more and more desperate. Blood splattered across the saber, and Sharpfur's face, and Grollo's and Hawthorn's. Then at long last the cannibal stopped struggling.

Grollo pulled himself free of the corpse, Hawthorn let go of the muzzle, and Sharpfur for good measure brought the saber down one more time.

All three were wide-eyed and breathing deeply. And all three refused to find each other's eyes. A strange kind of guilt washed over Hawthorn. For a moment she wanted to undo what had been done-to wipe away the ghastly scene. She wanted to put the blood back inside him, to hide the white of the bones.

Grollo felt sick-and if he had had anything to eat he'd have been sick on the spot. Sharpfur was shaking severely. This was his second kill... and it seemed there was even more blood here than in the first one.

Wordlessly the trio backed away from the murder. It had been self-defense... but that did not make any of them feel any better. And in their states of shock and horror, all three forgot about the second guard beast, who glowered at them with enough hatred to melt a pan of butter.

* * *

Connington knocked his nephew to the ground, raised the sword, then dropped it with a clatter. Relief, joy, hope and horror at what he had almost done all washed through him, and in a sudden rush of emotion he hugged his nephew as tight as he could.

Whimper was stunned by the sudden change of heart. Wasn't he going to run him through a moment earlier?

"Fret. Oh my Fret. I am so glad you're alright-you are alright, right? It doesn't matter, when we get back to the Abbey we can patch you all up. Now I don't know what happened, but it doesn't matter. Constance will be _so_ glad to see you- _I'm_ glad to see you. Now come on, let's get out of-"

Faster than someone his size should have been allowed to move, Clogg hopped down from a higher deck and landed behind the mouse. With great force he forced a spear into his back. There was a clang, and Connington stumbled forwards. Whimper pulled free from the mouse and backed away. What on earth was going on?

"Sorry mouse. But he isn't going anywhere. And neither are you." The rat growled. His face softened. "Whimper, matey are ye all ri-"

Connington whirled around, sword in paw, the metal blade sliced a long line down Clogg's cheek. "Sorry. But he's coming home. You on the other paw..." Before he could finish his sentence the rat's tail flew at him, and it was only out of instinct that Connington evaded the blow. The two dived for one another, the spear tip crashed into Connington's mail, but failed to cut through. Clogg wore no armour and as a result got a long cut along his chest. Hissing in pain the rat let the spear drop and dodged the next slash, before pouncing forwards, his claws sunk into the paw and Connington's sword clattered to the floor of the deck. A swift punch sent the mouse sprawling.

Whimper watched the duel with a pounding heart. What was going on? Why had the mouse acted like he'd known him? Whimper knew no mice! And what had he called him? Fr-Fre? _Why?_ And the hug... It had felt so real but-how could it have been?

Connington rolled out of the way of the rat's first kick, but got the wind knocked out of him by the second one. No doubt he'd have huge bruises when this was all done. The mouse spat, and caught the rat in the eye, before he could recover, Connington had knocked him off balance by rolling into his foot. The mouse got up, kicked up the sword and lifted it to end the rat. He brought the blade down with extreme force, but Clogg managed to catch it with the shaft of his spear.

"Whimper!" The rat yelled in desperation.

Whimper was frozen in fear and shock. What was he supposed to do?

Connington looked at Fret's confused, frozen features, and realized with mounting dread that something was wrong. "Fret. It's going to be allright."

Clogg had gotten his feet up and shoved them into the mouse's chest, knocking him off balance. He followed up with a swing that sent spit, blood and a tooth flying out the abbeydweller's snout. "Whimper. Hold still and don't ye move." Clogg ordered, bringing his foot down on the mouse's sword arm.

With a strength Connington rarely felt, the mouse brought his other paw into the rat's leg. Clogg stumbled, and Connington struck again, freeing himself completely. Fret still looked so utterly lost. "Remember me? I'm your Nuncle!" He was forced to avoid the captain's next attack.

"He's lyin' Whimper! Don't listen to him!"

"No Fret! He's lying! Don't listen to him!" Connington paused briefly to contemplate on how ridiculous he sounded-before slamming his head into the rat's gut, and bringing a clenched fist into his chin. The mouse fumbled for something under his mail-but dropped it when Clogg's tail whipped him hard on the leg. The mouse took a step backwards and with extreme force, brought his footpaw down on the rat's tail, before kicking with all the hatred he could muster.

"Whimper!" Clogg pleaded pathetically.

"Fret." Connington corrected icily, landing another kick to the rodent's prominent gut. The mouse picked up his sword and raised it-

The ferret did not think-he acted. He knew Clogg-but not the mouse. His name was not Fret. And he _was_ home. Pouncing forwards he gave his attacker a mighty shove. There was a yell of surprise, followed by a look of shock, then a great splash, and then the night was silent once more.

Clogg got up, panting. One woodlander meant others. "All paws on deck!" He bellowed.

Whimper stood there, stunned and stared down at his paws in horror. What had he done? He was shaking, and the spirit was glaring at him. The young ferret backed away in fear from the ghostly apparition, and tripped over what the real mouse had tried to show him. A round metal bob with a string attached. Whimper picked it up and hid it under his cloak. The mouse vanished with a final, disappointed shake of his head. But Whimper stood there, scared and cold, while Clogg yelled indistinctly.

* * *

 _Footnote: Predictably everything has just gotten a lot worse for everyone involved. Things always seem to do so in my fics... I really need to write a comedy soon... Book I of this fic is almost complete now. Which is good news, as Book II is a hellofalot juicier :) (No spoilers but when Fret gets him memories back- :P_

 _Now because most of my usual followers (not any I may have picked up for this fic) are uninitiated in most things Redwall I will explain the ghost a little, though I think you may already know. It's essentially the spirit of the original founder of Redwall, who comes along every book to help out the abbeydwellers when some new villain shows up to cause trouble. His role in this story will be very minor, and I'll even leave it up to you whether he's actually there or Fret's hallucinating. (Though personally I like the mystical side of things so in authorial canon, it is the ghost)._


	19. A Sunrise Over Mossflower

Momchillo could not help but fall into depression. The chains were cold and hard, the boat rocked uncomfortably under him, and all his friends were gone. They had escaped-he had no doubts about that-and most likely they would get back to Redwall soon and nobeast knew where he was, or where he was going.

When Abbot Martin had been teaching them about Martin (the Warrior's) arrival in Mossflower, he had thought he was like Gonff, clever, resourceful and a tad bit witty... instead he was one of the unnamed helpless woodlanders in need of rescue. Rescue was inevitable-but when would it come? Would he be old and grey and hunch-backed? Would he never see the halls of Redwall ever again? It was painful. Thoughts like that cut into him like knives through ribbon.

Everything he had known and loved...gone. No more summer days, or blissful spring. No more roaring feasts or silent snows. Only chains and darkness and the cursed cold. No more mother to come home to after a day of children's mischief. No more friends to laugh with and share the food. Only other slaves to be whipped alongside. Pain where once was joy... Matiya, Grollo, Hawthorn and Roseheart, even Jack and Tibbers who he had just met. Oh and Fret. Never again would he hear their guffaws, their grumbles or their growling bellies. No more smiles, snaps or snide remarks. Only sweat, slaps and so much work.

At least he was still poetic...

He sighed longingly, and tried to make himself comfortable. If he could sleep well then mayhaps the nightmare would end...

Just as he was about to drift off there came a loud click. Deathglare rubbed at tired, aching, and freed wrists. The pine marten rose and clicked his neck. Then he stooped over and jammed his claw into the lock of his shackles. After a swift bout of wriggling, that too gave away with a click, and the pine marten could move over to his collar. Momchillo watched as he rose, now free from the chains. The others seemed to be asleep.

"Can you unlock mine as well?" Momchillo asked cautiously. He hadn't really expected a reply, and none came. But to his surprise, the marten came over, and wordlessly slid his claw in the shackles. When the chains fell off him, the mouse gave his 'saviour' and at-one-point-captor' more attention. Though the light was bad he could quite clearly make out a long gash along the vermin's face. One of Deathglare's eyelids were shut-and Momchillo thought it was because there was no eye there.

The pine marten slumped down next to him, and an awkward silence descended. What was one meant to say to another who had held them captive, only to free them when it suited them? "Well... thank you sir."

The marten let out a chuckle. "I'm no 'sir'. Now shut yer trap an' go to sleep." Words did not come easily to him-it seemed. Or maybe a wound Momchillo had not noticed prevented him from talking much.

* * *

One-Eye disliked how far he had to spread out his party to clear the whole ship. Behind him lay the corpse of a rat, who had had the misfortune to be in need of a privy just as the hare was checking out this lower deck. The cry of alarm somebeast had raised did not bother him. Let the vermin come-he had his own son to look out for, and wouldn't give in to a few foebeasts. But after searching cabin after cabin, and looking every nook and cranny he did not find hide or hair of anybeast he knew. No mouse, vole, squirrel, hedgehog, shrew, and even the ferrets were few and far between (and none of them had resembled the youth he had promised to help find. Why the Redwallers had let in _another_ vermin was beyond him. It was not the first time this had happened.

There had been the rat Vitch, who had helped Slagar the Cruel capture the abbeybeast's children. There had been two stoats, whose names evaded him, who had been welcomed in only to kill some poor old mouse-or at least he thought it was a mouse. There had been the infamous Veil Sixclaw, who had been raised inside the walls of red bricks-and who (aside from his dying act) had been as rotten to the core as a moldy egg. Why would another one be any different?

With the discipline, and professionalism of a Long Patrol Hare, he pushed those doubts away

Still a promise was a promise, and he had vowed to reunite as many youngsters with their families as he could. But right now that vow seemed unlikely to be fulfilled. For children was what this ship sorely lacked. Dawn was not far off and time was short... he could check a few more decks...

* * *

If the cannibal had been a tad bit wiser, perhaps he wouldn't have rushed forwards with a cry of rage, that alerted the frightened children of his presence. His aim was deadly, and it was only due to Hawthorn's small stature that the vole was not slain on the spot. Forgetting any weapons he might have on him the savage grabbed Sharpfur by the scruff of the neck and tossed the young weasel as if he weighed nothing more than a rag-doll. Grollo spun on his heel and was clobbered on the head.

The hedgehog fell to the snow and could feel the warm trickling of blood slide down from his cheek. He had no time to consider the wound further, as the savage had pounced on him, and dug it's paws into his throat, where it squeezed with all the strength of an adder. Distantly, he could hear Sharpfur wailing in agony, but the hedgepig could do no more than struggle weakly, and try and push his attacker off. His vision was getting thinner, and every moment it was harder and harder to breathe. Then blood that was not his own splattered across his face and the savage fell on top of him.

He stunk of musk and rusted metal and rotten eggs, and it was only with difficulty that Hawthorn managed to push him off her friend. Grollo sat up, dabbing at his bloody cheek, and sucked in the air. Hawthorn was shaking, and was as white as the snow around them. At her feet lay the bloody saber. Sharpfur was whimpering.

With a sudden rush of energy and strength he did not know he had, the hedgehog seized Hawthorn by the paw. "Let's get out of here!" He implored. "Before the others wake up."

The vole nodded, and they set off through the forest, she stopped suddenly, and so did he.

"What is it?" He asked gently, but with a note of desperate urgency.

"Sharpfur. We can't just l-leave him." She whispered.

Grollo almost growled, and raced back quickly. He really didn't care about the weasel, but there were enough deaths on his paws for one night. He stopped next to the weasel's form just as lights were beginning to be lit in the main village.

Sharpfur whimpered, and Grollo saw now why he had been screaming. His back was singed and burnt, and bloody, where fire had melted through fur and flesh. As the cook's son he had seen many-a-burn, but this was far more serious than the small spots one got when they weren't careful with the cauldron. Lifting him swiftly, but gently, he slung the weasel over his shoulder, and set off once again. Hawthorn waited for him to level with her before they made good their escape.

Sharpfur meanwhile, was in a world of pain, and knew not where they were going, or even that he was going anywhere. All he felt was his back. And even that, he would rather not!

* * *

Somewhere to the east, the sun was rising. It was morning.

Clogg laughed in jubiliation. "Well done! Well done! I knew ye wouldn't just leave me hangin' there!"

"Of course not." The lie came easily. He hadn't meant to act... he just had. But that was good surely? But why then did he feel so horrible.

"Yer first kill. Congratulations me bucko!" The rat clasped him hard on the back. Whimper tried to smile, but the mouse's last look of bewilderment still shook him to the core. Why had he been surprised?

"Anything ye want? It's yers matey!" Clogg laughed good-naturedly, but their was something in his eye Whimper misliked.

"Anything?" The ferret asked distractedly.

"How 'bout an apple? It's what ye came here for weren't it?"

"How did you know that?" The surprising deduction had caught him by surprise and pulled him out of his thoughts.

"Whimper, Whimper, Whimper, I have been feeding ye apples since ye were no bigger than a bucket. I know what you want." Clogg handed him an apple. Bright red and hard. "Your mother loved apples too." Clogg said, sounding far-away, as if he were daydreaming.

"She did?"

"Mmmhmm. Take as many as ye like." The rat beamed at him, and though the smile did not look like it was often on the captain's lips, his eyes crinkled with genuine love-but then again so had the mouse's...

"Keep readin' Whimper. We can talk easier when ye remember things." The Captain left, merry despite his fresh wounds.

Was it guilt? Was it just surprise? Mayhaps all beasts felt like this after their first kill-but why had the mouse looked so surprised- and why had he gone and hugged him and dropped the sword and everything?

Whimper tossed the apple core into the sea. But while the doubts persisted, he couldn't help but consider the benefits. Whatever he wanted? Whenever he wanted? He watched the apple core get carried away by the raging current. Maybe he had made the right choice...

* * *

Matiya yawned weakly as the first golden rays of sunshine washed over him like a warm bath. The squirrel stretched in the snow and shivered slightly. He rolled over, intent on a few more minutes of blissful sleep. It had been a wonderful dream. They had come back to Redwall, and everyone had been happy to see them. Then a feast was made, and because he had been such a brave squirrel, willing to do whatever it took to bring all of the dibbuns home, he had been made Abbey Warrior. He had held the shining sword, it's starlight blade gleaming like the comet it had been made from. He had been so happy, and everyone had been happy. Jack was making a joke, and juggling a turnip, which landed in a large bowl of soup, and Tibbers and Fret had been drenched and then-

Matiya lurched away from the thought. Dreams of Redwall did not crush his spirit; no it enlivened him! But memories took that spirit and crushed it between their cruel paws. He shook his head and got to his feet.

It was a good thing he had, for Threeclaw, wide-eyed as if in panic, was getting to his own, looking both desperate and deadly at once. Those eyes that had begged for help only the day before, now glinted with a cruelty Matiya had never known, yet there also lay a note of panic, as clear as the snow around them. Neither moved, then quick as a striking snake, Threeclaw pounced.

* * *

"I checked the lowest deck, sah, no sign of anybeast. Vittles and the like."

"Aye, the upper deck had a bunch of sleeping hordebeasts, but no littluns, sah." This particular hare paused before adding that 'there were no lil' hordebeasts either, sah'.

One Eye paced round, the Log-a-Log following in his footsteps. They had let themselves drift behind, both to let their men rest and to think of what to do next while safely out of sight and reach of the vermin. Something was amiss, he could feel it in his bones. And it was only when the Log-a-Log had done a swift headcount that he realized what it was.

"Where is Jon Connington?" He called out. There was a babble among the shrews and hares, who turned and twisted in search of the mouse, but found no trace of him among their number.

The old hare captain felt his years creeping up on him. How many would they loose before they got what they came for? Then he let out a growl. "Follow that ship." Even if there were no young'uns within, Connington's disappearance and the mere size of it set off every nerve in his body. Something was amiss and he was going to find out what.

"But sah... we already checked it and there was no trace of-"

"Our quest is to find the children, wot. If they are not there, and not on the first boat then they must be scattered in Mossflower. Somewhere. But, at the same time one of our number has gone unaccounted for." He paused for a while. "I will stow away on the ship." He said finally. "Log-a-Log, scour this country. Look under every nook and cranny if you must. This boat though, if it can even be called that... well... it's not here to make us merry."

The group were solemn for a long while. So the old hare, one-eyed and deadly, threw off his long coat, clicked his neck and fastened his axe tighter around his belt. Then he went for a quick salute, which the other hares returned. Then he hopped off the boat, squeezed his nose shut between two fingers, and landed in the icy water. He rose again, turned back and pointed. "If I don't come back anybeast can keep me medals, but if I do and there's a single speck of dust on any one of them... why I'll make you wish you had knickers to twist!"

The shrews laughed heartily, but the hares did not, for they knew that that was an order-and it was a mighty big risk to disobey one's Captain.

* * *

When the other vermin had awoken Deathglare freed them as well. The pine marten then huddled in a corner with the two weasels, and began talking in low voices. It sounded like he was trying to comfort them, but here and now was the occasional, harsh hissing of an unkindly phrase.

Momchillo payed them no mind. Eavesdropping was rude, and anyhow he didn't care He tried to curl up and rest, but before he could, he could see dimly the old vermin healer making her way towards him. She sat down at his side. Bent and stooped by age she was no bigger than he was.

"Ye got any wounds?" She asked with ruthlessness he had never faced from the Abbey's nurse.

He shook his head. She harrumphed in... approval?

"I like it when you youngsters don't respond in words. More polite, see."

He nodded.

She sighed deeply. "Ever been on a slaveship before?"

He shook his head.

"I have. Though never as a slave, mind you. No, no. When I was a young'un, older than you, mind, oh I was a real killer."

Momchillo tried to imagine this old, old granny, with as many wrinkles as there were stars in the sky, being a 'real killer.' It took a lot of imagining.

"And I was a beauty too." She added with a chuckle.

This he found, even more unlikely.

"Aye, I was a cruel ol' seadog. Anybeast that got in my way soon knew what it felt like to have a dagger in their whiskers. But I was fair too, never whipped a slave more than they deserved."

Momchillo frowned but did not say a word. She noticed anyways.

"Humph, we can't all be as righteous as you abbeybeasts." She said mockingly. "Ye've got the fields and the forests, and the fruit and the grain. When I was growin' up all I had was snow and sleet as far as me eyes could see. There was plague, and famine. Our kind breed. Ye know what breeding is?"

He nodded. He was old enough to know.

"Well, we ain't all like those weasels over there who get their babes one by one. No, no. In the north there were litter after litter. And if we couldn't look after ourselves, then we'd die. Ye can't farm in the Northlands. Too cold, see. All yer crops would die. If ye can even get yer paws on seeds. And then one day yer hungry and starvin' and somebeast comes and says he's got food aplenty on his boat. He just needs yer help to plunder some fat ol' mouse with so much food he throws it around like it's dung. What would ye say?"

"I would... no, if I were hungry, and I knew the mouse... I'd ask him for food." At Redwall anybeast could come and ask for food and shelter. At anytime. And it would be given.

"Hehehe, maybe fer you. But I'm a varmint, boy. We can't walk up to yer castles and ask for food. Noone trusts us see."

"It's a bit hard to trust someone who kidnaps children." Momchillo said flatly. "And we raised Fret." He added, then felt a familiar anger rising within him.

"I didn't say it was without reason. Ye see, it's all fine an' good if we could just say we've had enough-but it's never enough. Vittles don't last forever, and then yer crew will get bigger, and ye'll need more food. We got no lack of hungry vermin. Where do you think all them hordes that raid yer abbey come from?"

"Well..."

"Exactly, my boy. The North, Islands far off somewhere. Sometimes we got no choice, and then when you're in... you're in. So don't you judge me now!" She snapped. Then she shrugged. "Ye woodlanders think we're rotten to the core... not far off really. But I'd say we're just lookin' out fer ourselves. But enough about me. My voice ain't what it used to be. Now tell me, what's yer abbey like?"

"Well... it's big and red, and... there's a pond. There's always fruit and food, and well..." Redwall hurt to think of, especially when he had been so close to coming back...

"Hmm, idealic. How comes you woodlanders let in a ferret?"

"Oh... Fret... well he, was... I don't know we grew up together."

"So he was a babe when he came in?"

Momchillo shrugged. "Well, yeah, we were all babes-"

"Who looked after him?"

"Constance, she used to beat up anyone that said anything bad about him." He remembered that she had almost beaten Abbot Martin once.

"Cute." The old vermin said flatly. She lost interest in Fret's history and moved on to another subject. "Is the abbey truly haunted?"

"Haunted? Oh you mean Martin the Warrior?" She flinched from his name. "Well, I've never seen him. But everybeast always used to say his spirit guides them."

"Humph." That was from Deathglare, who sat at his other side. "Load of bullocks. I heard that that mouse went and killed every varmint that set foot in the abbey. But youbeasts managed to raise one."

"Fret's not vermin though." Momchillo did not know why he was defending Fret-the very ferret that had tried to put a knife in him... "Well... he's not like you."

Deathglare shrugged. "Nobeasts' like me."

"But Martin the Warrior saved Redwall before. Many times."

"Sure he di-"

"Shut it Death before I poke out yer other eye! Now, child, tell us one of your Martin stories. And Silvertongue can make it into a song, see, you'd like that wouldn't you, ye undersized bag of fur." Silvertongue did not seem to notice the insult. "It's a long way from here to the Northlands, and seems to me we might as well do something with that time."

"How do you know we're going north?" Momchillo asked incredulously. The Northlands... they were so far away from Mossflower. he felt a familiar sinking feeling... he'd never get back home.

"Me old bones never lie. Now go on mouse, tell us a story. Make sure there's lots of blood and guts and death and gore-can't sleep without it, see."

Momchillo blinked. "Er... right." He cleared his throat. He had to be strong... there was hope... he would be rescued. He just needed to stay cheerful. He chose his favorite story, one Abbot Martin had read to them in class. "Once upon a time, in a winter just like this many seasons ago, Martin came to Mossflower-"

* * *

 _Footnote: I'd say two more chapters till Book I is over. Then there will be a short timeskip to end the travelling portion of this story (though actually a lot of this story is the characters traveling).  
_

 _Enjoy, Update soon!_


	20. End of Book I

The squirrel reared backwards, and kicked Threeclaw over him, so that the stoat missed his pounce and went rolling into a snowbank. Matiya got up quickly and grabbed one of the branches from the fire, he turned and parried a blow from a fat stick Threeclaw had somehow gotten his paws on.

The stoat's eyes were alight with cold laughter.

"I saved your life!" Matiya cried indigantly, as he ducked a swing and jabbed forwards. Threeclaw dodged effortlessly and brought the stick down onto his knuckles. The squirrel yelped in pain and for good measure was kicked in the stomach, so that he fell over once more. He had eleven older brothers, however, and being the youngest he was no slacker in the art of combat, especially now that Threeclaw did not have a real sword. He fell over, sucked in his belly to avoid a stick-thrust into the ground, turned and threw a snowball at his attacker. Threeclaw dodged, and in so doing allowed Matiya to kick the stick out of his paw. The squirrel caught the stoat's foot as it came down to wind him, and with teeth that could crack nuts open better than a hammer, the squirrel bit into it.

Threeclaw yelled in pain, and Matiya pulled and made him fall. Then the squirrel got up and pounced forwards.

* * *

Abbot Martin hadn't felt this old since... he couldn't even remember. "First sign of old age." He muttered to himself. "Loss of memory." Then again he had never been _exactly_ this age before, had he? He sighed and yawned and stretched. He had several hours free now, that he did not truly know what to do with. Normally he would have been scolding somebeast, confiscating something, educating. Yet, as if by common consent, his entire class had been captured by vermin. Everybeast had worry written in them, so that even his failing sight could see. Some hid it well, with optimism, and laughter that nobeast had heard before, others did not try to hide it and could not be asked to do anything. Abbot Martin thought it was a blessing that the cook was one of the former. At least the food was still good...

He pushed up his glasses, which had been threatening to slide off his muzzle, and rose shakily to his feetpaws. They had had no news from anybeast about what was going on beyond the abbey, and rumours were flying everywhere. Information was scant, and what news they did have was unclear. Fret had vanished on the night of the feast, everybeast else had vanished the next day. Then the Long Patrol had found a vermin camp which had managed to escape with the children, and vowed to pursue them. That was it. That was the last word they had had.

He had studied all the histories, and in truth was more Recorder than Abbot, and the histories were full of such tedious puzzles. First there had been the feast. So the children had been captured the day afterwards, but that left Fret unaccounted for. And Constance had collapsed at the feast. Perhaps she had seen Fret leaving, or perhaps he had been taken, and somebeast had wounded her while she fought back. And then the other children... how had they even gotten out of the Abbey? And how did they end up in the paws of pirates? Somehow it was all connected, but for the life of him he could not put it together. Fret didn't know anybeast beyond Redwall. He had left the abbey on one trip, and had, to the old mouse's surprise, returned back to the abbey all safe and sound.

Fret had always been difficult, more so than the rest of his peers. Matiya was overactive. Grollo was easily distracted, and sometimes Rosebrush's moletalk was so strong he had difficulty understanding her. But they all obeyed, and listened and payed attention. The only one who could cow the young ferret into submission was the badgermum, and Constance, but the latter never seemed to want to.

In truth, he had always reminded him of Veil Sixclaw, a ferret who had many, many, many seasons ago been raised in the abbey, only for him to turn poisoner and get banished. Bryrony, whom the old abbot always imagined looked like Constance, had then followed her 'sweet' little child. He had tried to kill her several times over, but she persisted that he was 'good'. Then at last, Veil met with his father, the feared warlord Swartt Sixclaw, who tried to slay the mousemaid only for the boy to take the blow and die from it.

"Extravagant." He muttered. But the extravagance of it had a purpose. He had always seen it as a warning as to the nature of vermin. They could not be trusted, not even one who had known nothing but the goodness of the world. And after the disaster that Fret's first and only outing had caused, he had been sure the ferret had had enough and was on his way out and onto a life of his own.

"But he came back." Just as grumpy, and disinterested as ever... but he had come back. Connington had been right then, and he was a good lad. After that Martin had tried. He had truly, truly tried to keep him involved. He had controlled his temper as best he could, and gave encouragement when it seemed needed. Would that be enough to warrant a second return?

* * *

Threeclaw lifted his feet and kicked at the pouncing squirrel, winding him and throwing him forwards into a tree. The snow was shaken off and fell on top of Matiya, who stood quickly and shook it off him as fast as he could. A moment later he got a stick to the stomach, and his nose was brought down to the stoat's rising knee. It hurt a lot and sent waves of pain all over him, then the stoat tossed him backwards into the snow.

* * *

He arrived at the Hospital Wing. Blind Agatha was struggling to stay awake next to the bed Constance lay on.

"Tired?" He asked, not unkindly.

"Try exhausted. Bella says somebeast has to watch over her." She indicated the large mouse sleeping peacefully on the soft bed.

"I can take over if you want some rest. I haven't got anything better to do."

The squirrel shook her head. "Can't sleep. I'm too worried about my Mati."

"I'm sure he's alright." The words were empty, since Abbot Martin could not give anything to prove the truth of them.

"You and everybeast else. An' how can he be alright? He's probably curled up in some dark little cell with the others. Don't even imagine anybeast gives him something to eat. Their kind ain't generous..."

"I'm sure he's alright." Abbot Martin repeated, this time more firmly.

* * *

Matiya crashed through the snowbank, but had scarcely a moment before he had to move out of the way of Threeclaw's next swing. He lifted his own stick in time to block another swing and was surprised it didn't break on the spot. It shook in his paw, and made his whole body shake, but he had no time to contemplate further. Threeclaw was attacking again.

 _I'm doing alright._ He thought. _I mean... I'm not dead yet, am I?_

Then the stoat stopped pressing the attack, and leaned casually against a tree. He placed a paw to his throat and croaked. "Not bad."

"I saved your life." Matiya reminded him.

The stoat shrugged. "Your mistake."

The squirrel felt his courage fleeing. This stoat was cold-hearted and cruel, and would kill him without a second thought. Fighting him was not a good idea.

But fighting him was his only course of action. They fought, their sticks cracking and clacking, the snow under them flying like sprays of ocean waves.

Threeclaw's breathing was growing raspier, but each of his blows came down stronger each time, and Matiya's stick was cracked in two and he was forced to scamper away. Threeclaw placed a paw against a tree. His breathing was thicker than ever, in the end he slid down the tree, and Matiya saw the reason he had won, there was blood seeping from the stoat's throat. And the same pleading stare from his eyes.

"You'll kill me." Threeclaw shook his head from side to side, and Matiya could see he was close to tears. He found that still he could not let this creature die... despite what had just happened.

"This time... I'm tying you up."

* * *

Constance's eyes blinked open. And she sat up suddenly.

"Constance?" Asked the abbot. He placed a paw on her shoulder. It was quivering faintly. "Are you feeling well dear?"

"Well?" She turned to him, then to Blind Agatha. Then before either could react she threw her arms around both and drew them into a hug. "I feel fantastic! Today is amazing! Truly, the best day to wake up to!"

Abbot Martin tried in vain to pull free from her grip, and as she stood up she dragged him along, though Blind Agatha managed to slip free and was now catching her breath. Constance, with energy that would make a dibbun envious, raced over to the window and threw it wide open. Abbot Martin hastily grabbed his glasses before they were unceremoniously shattered at the foot of the tower.

"Why! The sun is up and there is not even a cloud in the sky! This is truly... truly a great day!" She sighed lovingly, then giggled and grabbed the helpless Abbot by the paws, before turning round and round across the room, practically lifting the smaller mouse off the floor. "My baby's alive! My baby's alive! My baby's alive!" At long last she let go of the abbot, who promptly collapsed onto the bed she had been occupying moments before. His head spun still, and he waited for the world to reset around him. Presently, Constance had gotten her paws onto a flower, and was breathing deeply into it's bright yellow petals.

"What do you mean your baby's _alive?_ " Blind Agatha asked with narrowed eyes.

"Indeed. Fret was never dead." Added Martin, clutching his old head between his paws while he sat up.

"No, not Fret, silly! _My_ baby! Skip was his name!" She giggled again, and for a moment Abbot Martin was worried she was about to dance again.

"Skip?" Fret had always been _her_ baby, even when he had grown far too old to be called a baby.

"Speaking of which, where is Fret?"

Abbot Martin felt a knife go through him where his heart had been a moment earlier. He gulped audibly, and glanced at all that was left of Blind Agatha. A cloud of dust...

"He's gone."

"Gone?"

"I don't know where, I don't know why, I don't even know exactly when." He was sweating. He had seen the result of Constance's love of her son, and he doubted he could survive such a beating at his age.

Constance looked sad for a moment. "Connington's gone after him then?"

"Er...yes. And we have some of the Long Patrol. And the Log-a-log has been very kind. I'm sure he's alr-" He caught himself mid-sentence.

Constance gazed down at her feet. Then she looked back up at him, and though her grin was smaller, it was still a grin. "He'll come back. I know he'll come back. He promised me he'd come back."

If Fret had the choice to come back again... well he'd already made that choice, hadn't he?

"Fret will come back. Now Abbot, tell me where is my son-not Fret. Skip. He was here at the feast." Then without warning she grabbed him by the paws and began dancing round and round again.

 _Oh dearie me..._

"He was here! He was here! He was here!"

Round and round they went, and the old mouse's mind raced everywhere at once. Constance's son? At the feast? Fret had been Constance's son for as long as anyone could remember...

"My son's alive! Hahahahahaha!" The laugh radiated life and joy and love, it had all her heart inside it.

"I'm getting too old for this." Mumbled the abbot as he cradled his head again.

* * *

"You want to be a warrior?" Threeclaw managed to croak out. The stoat was awake then, and was now bound thickly by a large pile of snow. Matiya wished he could have used rope of some kind, but unfortunately he had none. His eyes were laughing but this time there was no cruelty.

"What's it to you?" Matiya asked angrily. The ingratitude hurt him more than anything. He had saved the stoat's life and almost died for it. And now he had saved him again...

"You had a wooden sword." Threeclaw remembered vaguely, then he leered. "You do want to be a warrior."

"Yes. I do. As a matter of fact." He had been rethinking this career option a lot lately. Surely a warrior should be made of stronger stuff...

"You have a good heart... it'll get you killed one day..."

He couldn't quite tell why there was a note of concern in the vermin's voice. Still his fur bristled in anger. "By you?"

"...Not...today..." He chuckled and the two descended into silence.

"You're not bad."

For some reason Matiya flushed with pride and stood a little straighter.

"For a squirrel." He added.

"Explains how I beat you."

"You did not beat me amigo."

Matiya smirked. "Sure. That explains why you're neck deep in snow and I'm not."

His smirk vanished when the stoat rose and the pile of snow fell around him. The same smirk appeared on the vermin's face. "You want to go back to your abbey, eh? I will take you there. But when I arrive I expect to be treated like a guest."

"We'll tie you to a mast and hang you off the top of the walls." Matiya said in mock seriousness.

"And when I leave I will do so with a big bag of vittles, and my rapier. Do you know the way back?"

Matiya shook his head.

"Good. Then you need me." Threeclaw sat back down, and leaned in contentment.

Matiya frowned.

"Oh and if you want I can teach you."

The squirrel tried not to be swayed by the obvious temptation. But how could he? In his mind's eye Threeclaw was fighting and winning and laughing. His sword flashed while he did an overly fancy lunge that somehow disarmed all his opponent's. Then the image changed and it was himself in the stoat's position. Laughing and winning and fighting.

"That doesn't sound too bad." Matiya said evenly, suppressing the urge to hop to his feet and twirl a stick about and begin at that very moment. Then he looked up and found Threeclaw was fast asleep.

* * *

"Is your shoulder better?" Grey asked solemnly as they continued to walk aimlessly down the river.

"Yes. Yes it is." The pain was numbed and his arm hung limply at his side, the rat had warned him that it would do that. "Thank you, Grey Claw."

The rat beamed despite himself. "You're welcome."

Jack-is-lucky then came out of nowhere, holding out a giant slab of snow that he had spent the past few hours molding into the perfect shape, so that it now resembled a giant slab of cheese.

"Hello!" He beamed. "How are we doing chaps? Not too bally bad, eh?"

"Is that snow?" Grey asked, pointing at what the hare was holding.

"It's a present! For our most er-trusted companion, our beloved healer, Master Greyclaw of the Dishonest Bunch! May you never go hungry and enjoy this piece of snow, which I gift to you now in the place of cheese!" Greyclaw beamed widely and held out his arms to accept the badly-shaped piece of cheese, which the hare gifted to him. He would see Sharpfur again, when they went to Hellgates together. _Maybe I can even say I'm older than him, coz he died younger..._ "Now! Let us continue on our way! We will find our friends before Spring comes! That is my solemn promise to you-"

"We don't need a speech." Tibbers interrupted. "I think we should just head deeper into the woods, Redwall isn't next to a river."

"But I like the river." Greyclaw said quietly, cradling the piece of 'cheese'.

"Aye, but Redwall's where we're going." Jack-is-lucky said matter-of-factedly.

"Redwall's haunted." Grey said quietly, pulling in the 'cheese' for safety and comfort.

Tibber's took one of the rat's paws in his own, and Jack did the same. "No ghost will hurt you so long as you're with us."

 _"I'm happy for you Grey_..." That's what Sharpfur would have said if he could see him now. And he could, couldn't he? He would be watching him. The weasel had promised to never leave him, death wouldn't stop him from keeping that promise.

Almost skipping the three travelled into the woods, holding hands it appeared that they were merely dibbuns going to school, and from a distance Grey and Jack and Tibbers ceased to be shrew and rat and hare, and were merely three friends going for a stroll.

* * *

 _End of Book I_

* * *

 _Footnote: And there you have it. Book I is complete. In keeping with the style of Redwall's original author I have separated the fic into three separate 'books'. Though I will continue to publish them here.  
_

 _Unfortunately I can't give you release dates on anything, both because summer holidays are coming and because I *might* have exams. Even though I left school and have a job... Life. *shrugs* still I doubt I will ever stop writing so you can expect something eventually._

 _I hope you enjoyed the first 'third' (the plot is divided rather roughly into three...) of this story. It has been very fun to write, purely because it is quite different from what I usually do (less action more... drama?). It's also interesting to note that it has one of the highest views I've gotten on a fanfic, and I think it will have the highest by the time I finish it._

 _I will *try* to take a break from this story and work on my other fics but life is confuzzling._

 _Enjoy and Update soon._


	21. A Return And Other Things

Book II: From There To Here And Here To There

* * *

 _A few weeks of travelling later..._

* * *

The news hit Constance like a sledgehammer. Roseheart spoke staring at her feet, and the hall was silent and solemn. At first it had been ringing with joy, for the Foremole had been ever so happy to see his daughter safely returned, and the crowd had cheered at the wonderful sight. Then, after she had been restored to her full health the time had come for news, and Rosebrush told it all how she thought it to be. She did not look at anybeast, and when she finally got to the part where they had gotten onto the boat she stopped and broke down and was taken away.

Fret had ran away... And then Matiya had convinced the other children to go looking for him. Then they had been captured and held prisoner. Fret had wanted to kill Momchillo... then somebeast had been attacking the ship and they had managed to escape, and they had almost escaped as well, but Matiya had not wanted to leave Fret behind. The tale had ended there. Constance felt her insides clench, and felt eyes staring at her. Abbot Martin looked worried and his mouth hung open, for though he wanted to speak and give reassurance no words could leave his mouth.

"I'm sure they're alright." He said at last. Very quietly.

"How can they be?!" Blind Agatha roared, making everybeast near her jump in fright. "Alright? _Alright? Nobeast knows where they are! They're not here and they're not safe!"_

"Well..."

"Poor young mole, I can hardly imagine what she went through... and so young too-"

"She will be fine-" The old mouse's reassurance was cut short.

" _She_ will be! But what about the rest, eh? Are we just meant to forget they exist?!"

"The Long Patrol are doing their best-"

"And what if they're _dead?_ "

Silence filled the hall, and Momchillo's mother began sobbing.

"They're not dead." Constance declared boldly, challenging any to say that they were.

She did not expect to hear what came next, and was entirely unprepared for the insult. _"Says the beast who raised a ferret. Because eventually the vermin will just decide to be good, eh? You were so sure Fret was a goodbeast, that he cared about you, how sure are you now?"_

"I'm certain!" She bellowed angrily and tried to find the owner of the voice. Pounding them would rid her mind of worries...

 _"Truly? He was rotten to the core since the very beginning and you know it! He lied like a magpie and it was only a matter of time till he went and did something villainous. But he has, hasn't he? He tried to kill somebeast. Is that your angel? Is that your baby? Eh Constance?"_

Constance had no reply for that either.

 _"Fret was never a goodbeast, you just convinced yourself that he was. He doesn't care about you. Never did. Never will. You're not his mother and he knows it. He was never your son anyways... just a replacement."_

"Shut up! Shut up!" She bellowed, clutching her head tightly.

Abbot Martin raised his eyebrows. She had been the only one speaking... "Constance are you alright?"

She laughed madly, and once again it filled the Abbot's mind with fear. Though this time he was not scared of being tossed and turned around in a mad happy-dance. He was scared that she was broken. This time irreparably. "Alright? Alright? Fret's gone and become vermin! You were all right! Happy now! You were ALL RIGHT! He was never good! Never could be g-o-oo-d!" She cried into her paws.

Many present felt a kind of guilt rising inside them. They had been right... apparently... but there was no joy in it. Perhaps they blamed him for what had befallen their young... but those views could not be brought to Constance.

Abbot Martin remembered the ferret that had stuck to the corner of his class and snored through his lessons... Briefly he remembered Jon Connington's argument. "He's not... Veil Sixclaw."

Silence descended once again, the only sound was the sob of broken hearts.

* * *

"I'm bored." Said Whimper.

Presently he and Clogg were in the cabin with all the books. The ghost had not haunted him any further, and he was glad of that. Though what did haunt him was the cursed mice he'd pushed overboard. Why had he looked so surprised? He was tempted to ask the Captain, but for some reason he was doubting the rat's honesty. There were too many things that didn't match and his memory had still not returned to him.

"Only the boring are bored." Clogg said lightly. He was staring intently at a paper stuck to the tabletop.

"Watcha looking at?" The young ferret asked, leaning over the rat's shoulder. It was a map, which he recognized as being one of the Cursed Abbey.

"Nothing much. Just plans, for when we get to the Northlands."

"Why are we going to the Northlands?"

"Because an old matey of mine's invited me over. Longclaw. King of the Frozen North! Ha! The day I call him 'your highness' is the day I die!"

"That's not meant to be there." The ferret pointed suddenly at a house of sorts lying next to the walls of red stone.

"Huh? Oh that old hut, whaddya mean that's not meant to be there?"

Whimper pointed at the gate. "That's the gatehouse, which is just next to the gate, it's not a random hut. Here, gimme the quill." Without waiting, the ferret took the quill, dipped it in the ink and drew the shape of the gatehouse.

"How do you know that?" Clogg asked, his eyes doing that odd thing that the young vermin disliked.

"Well... I-er..." _How had he known?_ "I suppose I read it."

"Excellent!"

Then Whimper once again got disinterested and changed the subject. "So when are we going to get to the Northlands?"

"Soon." The rat promised. "Hopefully today. But if not then on the morrow."

"Good. I'm sick of this boat."

"Why don't ye read something, eh? Ye always liked readin'."

"Not anymore I guess." He decided he could trust Clogg and found the words to describe what he felt like.

Whimper opened his mouth to talk further, and found an apple shoved into it.

"I have got things to do Whimper, I will see you later on." And saying so, Clogg walked out the cabin, leaving Whimper to grumble. Yes, yes. The captain had things to do. He always had things to do. Slumping in his chair he gazed absentmindedly at the books. He wasn't bothered with reading, and wasn't hungry enough to ask for vittles, so he occupied himself with flicking the odd thing the mouse had dropped. It was a toy of some kind. The rope made it go down, but if his paw was dexterous enough it would spin back round again. Up and down and up and down and up and down. It was almost hypnotic.

That was what he liked about it. He placed all his mind on the toy, and found that ghosts and dead mice haunted him no further. Well... until the spinning stopped.

* * *

Once Constance and Rosebrush had been taken away by the cook and Bella respectively, the hare and shrews found that they had the courage to discuss another matter.

"Rightey... um there's another thing we did find. Well... things... well... babes." The shrew provided the four young weasels, tied up by thin rope. Cheesienibbles, the only male and the youngest, looked positively frightened, but the three girls were glaring and snarling at everybeast in a show of anger and rage. They wanted freedom.

They were young and did not truly know what was going on. Their had been a fight, yes, but where were there parents? And where was Sharpfur? And where was Grey Claw? And all their other brothers and sisters?

"We found them and uh... it would be cruel to leave them for the fates... but er.. seeing as they couldn't be brought along and..."

"You expect us to raise vermin pups after one of them has gone and stolen our children? A vermin-pup we raised mind you!"

"I didn't bally say so!" But the hare's ears flattened and he did not know _what_ to say.

"We can keep them in an empty cellar for now." Said the old abbot rubbing his poor, poor forehead. "Bring them food and drink and all that...and..." _Dear Martin what are we going to do?_

* * *

Sharpfur sat up groggily, being careful to not move his back too much for it pained him greatly. He was surprised to see that he was lying on a bed. An actual, real bed. He pinched his nose to test whether he was dreaming. He wasn't. So they had escaped the cannibals then? Was this the famous Redwall? Or rather, infamous... He heard laughter, and gingerly got to his feetpaws. They seemed to be working fine. His claws itched for the dirk that was not on his belt and grumbling he made his way to the door. He stopped when he heard an unfamiliar voice speaking loudly.

"And so ends the tale of Veil Sixclaw, who died the way he lived."

Sixclaw... there had been a story about an idiot ferret warlord with six claws, who had, out of sheer ludicracy, picked a quarrel with a badger only to die for it. What a silly beast. Sharpfur pushed the door open and walked in to the laughter.

Hawthorn looked radiant, and for once calling her a princess would lead to nought but a blush. Grollo looked happier and better-fed than Sharpfur had ever known him to be. And the last figure, who had been telling her the story, turned around and beamed at him. She was a hedgepig-inwardly he cursed his luck- appron-wearing and plump. In fact Grollo could have easily been passed off as her son. The laughter stopped from Hawthorn and Grollo, who stiffened at his arrival. Their relationship was made even more awkward now that nobeast could forget the snowball fight.

"Ah you're awake dear! So good to see you on your feet! And so swiftly too! Your friends have told me a lot about you!"

"They have?" _Friends?_

"Hush now, don't get all worked up. Please sit down and I'll see what grub I can find for you." She disappeared into another room, and the prospect of food made Sharpfur take her vacated seat. It was uncomfortably warm, but that was not his concern.

"So... we escaped those cannibals, eh?" Sharpfur asked.

Hawthorn shuddered. "Please don't talk about that."

The prospect of tormenting somebeast filled Sharpfur with familiar pleasure. "Why ever not, princess?" He said with a sneer. "Twas a good battle! Did ye see when I went and took the saber and started wha-" His own discomfort stopped him from continuing, and he was disappointed at the missed opportunity. "So how did we get here? And who's fatty over ther- Owch!"

"She is the nicest beast you'll ever know!" Snapped Hawthorn, who had kicked him. "She rescued us. We almost drowned escaping those vermin, and now she's going to feed you! And when you're better we can go to Redwall Abbey! At least _show_ some simple respect!"

"I'll respect that dress she gave you, _mouse_. First thing you need to know about me is that I only care about and respect me! Meself! Sharp! Fur! Ye got that?"

Hawthorn frowned. "What about your family?"

Sharpfur shrugged. "Most of 'em are dead now. No doubts about that."

The casual way he spoke about the death of his family stunned both woodlanders.

"Are you vermin all so heartless?" Hawthorn gasped in shock.

"It ain't being heartless. It's being realistic. In fact I wouldn't be surprised if none of your abbey-pals made it out alive."

"Well you better hope they did." Growled Grollo. "Otherwise you'll be taking the full force of a lot of angry parents!"

"That's saying if I get to Redwall. Make no mistake I'm not stepping foot in that abbey."

"Ha! I knew it! You were leading us the wrong way!"

"Ye knew and followed anyways ye great fat slob."

Grollo tried to kick him under the table, missed, and hit the wooden leg with his foot. While the hedgehog rubbed at the fresh bruise Sharpfur cackled.

"Ye've got so much pudge round yer eyes ye can't even kick straight! Hahahahaha-awch!" Hawthorn had kicked him, and he stood up, the charred furs on his back bristling in anger.

"I'm going to kill ye both one day. Bit by bi- YOUUUUWIE!" Grollo had leaned over and smacked him hard on the burnt back, just as the hogmaid came back in with a wonderful array of food.

"Whatever is the matter?" She asked, her eyes wide and round. Sharpfur was in too much pain to reply, so Grollo provided the answer for him.

"It's his back marm. It pains him greatly."

"Oh my! I forgot! I'm so sorry dear, here let me help you." Gingerly she helped Sharpfur to his feetpaws, the weasel's teeth were clamped shut against each other to prevent him from yelling in pain. "Oh my... mymymymymy... I know just what to do to sort this out!"

"What?" Sharpfur seethed through gritted teeth. _One day hedgepig... one day..._

"A bath!" She cried aloud.

"Bath?" The pain made the word unfamiliar. Then he remembered with terror that bathing was to submerge oneself into water. "Bath!? Nonononono! My back is _fine!_ "

"I think not! A good, nice, long, hot bath is just what you need!" She sniffed tentatively. "And perhaps some soap would not be amiss. Come along now!" And with that she tugged him gently by the ear and pulled him away, out another door.

As soon as she was out of earshot Grollo and Hawthorn shared a high-paw and began laughing.

"Serves him right! Leading us the wrong way and all! We would have been back home if it weren't for him." Grollo said, plucking a scone from the nearby tray the hogmaid had brought for Sharpfur.

Hawthorn was silent. "Grollo?"

"Hmmm?"

"Do you think the others... Did they get back yet or?"

The hedgehog swallowed his mouthful. "Positive."

Hawthorn nodded.

"I think Matiya managed to jump off the ship. I think he's home. And Jack and Tibbers and Momchillo just ended up on the riverbank, like us, only they didn't have _him_ to lead them the wrong way." Grollo then proceeded to devour the scone.

"So we'll be the last ones back, eh? Imagine Abbot Martin, he'd be so angry we missed his classes!"

At this the two burst out laughing again.

* * *

"Up! Down! Up! Up! Up! Up! Down! Yes! Good! Down! Down! Up! Left!" Two sticks whacked against each other repeatedly, until at last at 'left' Threeclaw caught Matiya a blow to the squirrel's right paw, causing him to yelp in pain and drop the stick as he shook life back into it.

"You said left!" Matiya said grumpily.

"I meant my left." Threeclaw leered as he went back to lounging against a tree. "And anyways, why are you listening to what your foebeast's saying, eh? You should always do the opposite of what your enemy wants you to do."

"So when you say 'Up' I should block 'Down'?"

"I ain't yer enemy, amigo!" At the look on the squirrel's face Threeclaw burst out laughing.

The journey back to Redwall was slow going, mainly because they were lost. Trees all looked the same in the thick snow, so Threeclaw had decided that they should make a camp and wait there up until Spring thawed it away. Of course they changed camp every night, but they did not do much travelling. They ate little, and munched on snow more often than not. But what Matiya did enjoy about his companion was what he could teach him. Threeclaw had proven several times over that he was a force to be reckoned with, and slowly he was imparting this knowledge onto the young squirrel.

Their was a sudden, unfamiliar shout coming from somewhere not too far away and both froze.

"You don't think it could be?" _Rescue... Please, oh please be rescue!_

Threeclaw shook his head. "Do you know the voice?"

Matiya said that he didn't and the stoat rose quietly. "Stay here. I'm going to see what's happening."

"I'll come too!" Said Matiya, going once again for his stick.

"No!" The stoat hissed, then he took a deep breath. "If it's woodlanders they'll take us to Redwall. Remember our bargain. But if it's vermin they'll skin ye alive."

"I can fight the- What was that for!" Matiya yelled as he rubbed a hurt ear.

"Rule one of staying alive. Do not look for a fight. I'll be right back. Stay here and be quiet. If you hear me cry 'Fire!' Run and hide someplace, and do not go looking for me!"

Matiya nodded vigorously and hoped that he would not hear the dreaded word.

The stoat vanished into the snow, and soon his white coat made him invisible.

* * *

"And then he looked me right in the eye and said that he loved me." The whole underdeck was silent as Sick-Eyes was finishing what was a truly sad, albeit exaggerated tale. "Then I looked him back and said 'I know ye do. Wait fer me in Hellgates.' Then I shoved me knife into his throat so he died quick-like and painlessly."

Deathglare leaned over and whispered into Momchillo's ear. "She's making it up. Changes every time, I swear." His voice was always quiet, and the mouse barely heard the whisper, but somehow it carried loud enough for Sick-Eyes to hear and glare at her cousin.

"No it don't! I just use different words ye great dafty!"

Deathglare shrugged and fell back into silence.

Momchillo had long ago asked how such an old beast could have a cousin so young, only to learn that they were not truly related in any way, shape or form. Deathglare was from the Green Isle to the West, and Sick-Eyes had been a Northlander. But both had settled with the Honest Bunch in Mossflower. The term 'cousin' was only used between them since they were of the same species. Deathglare had then added that 'he wasn't that young'.

"So mouse what do yer think? Nice and lurvely little tale innit? And all true!" She said, glaring pointedly at her fellow vermin.

"Well..." _It's more realistic than you being young._ "It was sad."

"Of course it was. Life is sad me lad. Sad, sad, sad. Ye spend more of yer years cryin' and mournin' than ye think. First yer a whelp an' then all ye do is cry! Then ye grow a bit older and cry everytime ye get a little cut or a bump, then yer young and ye cry when all yer mates start dying around ye and ye don't have food and the horde's marchin' too fast an' ye don't like the captin. Then if yer lucky ye get old and then ye start cryin' coz you don't wanna die, innit."

Momchillo frowned at her wisdom. "Yes... but life can be happy too. When you're a kid almost anything makes you laugh. Even when it's somebeast tripping over something. Then you grow up and there's always someone doing something slightly funny. Then you grow old and your grandkids make you laugh and if you're brave... you laugh in the face of death."

Silvertongue cackled with glee, holding his sides as laughter hooted out of him. "No wonder ye woodlanders are always dyin'. Too stupid to do anythin' but laugh!"

Momchillo felt himself go pink as all the others around him laughed uproariously. "I tell ye, ye weren't laughing when you first woke up here!" Sick-Eyes hooted.

Momchillo waited for the laughter to subside. "The point is life isn't only good and bad. You get your goodtimes and your badtimes. Same as everything else."

"Except in beasts?" The old pine marten was smarter than she looked. She must have read the doubt that crossed through his mind.

"Well you have goodbeasts and you have ve-badbeasts."

"But if everything has a 'balance'," Silvertongue pointed out. "Why is it that there are beasts that are only good and beasts that are only bad?"

"Well... their aren't. I mean... look at you guys. Sure I was your captive-"

"Guest!" Repeated the four vermin instantly.

"Alright. I was your guest. But you didn't treat me too bad. And well... you could have done worse."

"Alright so we're not totally bad. Ye here that guys? Good behaviour! Line up for extra vittles!" The vermin roared with laughter once more.

"Please tell me you don't trust us." Deathglare said solemnly.

"I don't." The mouse said flatly. "Not as far as I can throw you."

"Good. Trust gets you killed more than a knife to the back." Said Deathglare in his quiet voice.

"So wait mousie. We ain't totally naughty apparently, so what's bad about yerself?" Silvertongue said, a massive grin plastered firmly to his face.

"Oh... me... well... I..." He was honest. He washed his fur and brushed his teeth. He wasn't a glutton. He didn't have a short temper. He wasn't cruel. He tried to be kind as best he could.

"It's not that hard of a question." The weasel said, looking significantly less amused.

"Go on. What's the worstest, most verminy-thing ye've ever done?"

"Um... well there was this one time I broke Friar Bartholomew's mug-" He stopped at the look of deadpanned annoyance shared amongst their faces. "It was a... pretty mug." He said, going slightly pink.

"Well ain't he an angel." Said Sickletail finally, and all of them roared with laughter. "When they was your age the worst thing my young'uns did was set fire to an otter tent. Ye should have seen the thrashings I gave 'em!"

Momchillo was confused whether she was referring to the thrashings she had given her children or the otters...

"The wors' thing I've done... now lemme think. There's a long list of 'orrible deeds under my name-"

"How about feeding us yer medicine, eh?" And once again the underdeck was laughing.

"The worst thing I've ever done... probably keeping you lot around." Said Deathglare solemnly, and Momchillo was touched by the sincerity. Only for the pine marten's pouchy face to burst out in a cacophany of laughter.

"Aw what a sweet lil' bumlicker you are Death. Hehehehehe! Go on why dontcha hug yer little mousie pal?"

"Silvertongue does the worst thing every day. He sings. And every day it takes him closer and closer to Hellgates."

Momchillo grinned while the vermin laughed. "Well, there was this one time we hung Fret off the walls."

"Oh what's this? The angel's become Vulpuz, Lord of Hellgates?"

"Do tell."

"Well I don't know why we did it... I suppose it was funny at the time..." Momchillo's smile faltered and fell. He had done it with Matiya and Grollo, and all three had thought it to be a wonderful idea... it had been funny at first, but maybe it was only funny for them. Fret had been scared and pleading, and mayhaps had even been crying. It was odd... to see things in another light many seasons later. But it had only been a joke... a bad one sure, but it had been a joke. And they had apologized and taken their punishment with bowed heads. And Fret had been the same afterwards. Or had he?

"Awwww, the widdle angel feels guilty!" Silvertongue leered.

"Well... Fret was our friend... it was a mean thing to do to anybeast. Let alone our friend."

"Don't go gettin' yer tail in a twist now little mouse. Ye should have seen what my friends used to do to each other. There was this one rat. We dumped some poison in his soup."

The vermin all grinned knowingly. Poison in the soup! What a classic!

"Why would you do that? He could have died." Momchillo sounded aghast.

"But he didn't. And it's his fault anyways. He should have known better than to just accept food like that. Plus it taught him to always check whether the food was poisoned or not! Now that's something all young'uns should know about. Course checking his food didn't help him when he drowned." There were more gales of laughter but Momchillo did not find it so funny.

"What's the matter? Ye laugh in the face of death! We laugh at death! He ain't around to get all offended."

"Yes but... isn't it sad that you know... he's dead?"

"Course it is. Death's painful. But that's life. And if ye can't laugh at somebeast's death then what's the point of em dying, eh? I swear if anybeast cries at me funeral I'd get up and give em something to cry about!"

At this even Momchillo had to laugh. His laughter was cut abruptly when the ship turned sharply.

"Aye. We're here." Said Sick-Eyes. She sighed deeply. "Never fear. Chains and fetters have never held me long."

"What about the rest of us then?" Silvertongue muttered, and the good mood vanished almost instantly.

* * *

Threeclaw returned looking positively delighted despite a black eye. He held in his paw an old haversack, filled with food that made Matiya's mouth water.

"What happened?" The squirrel asked, wiping his drooling mouth along his arm.

"Well twas a bunch of pirates. They said they was looking for somebeast and beat me up a bit. Then I got their Capetan's sword in paw and made 'em give up some vittles. Then I marched 'em all the way back to their boat. Hehehehehehe. But I kept the sword."

The stoat showed off a long rapier. It was beautifully made and gleaming brightly, and Matiya felt a twinge of nervousness. Now the stoat had a weapon. If he ever chose to slay him the squirrel would be hard-pressed to do anything beyond pleading for mercy and getting over a dozen holes poked into him.

"Scared?" He jeered, and placed the blade down into the snow. "We'll practice with sticks, but if trouble arrives the blade's mine."

"Okay." He wondered how long it would take before he had to walk with his paws tied behind his back.

"Now, who's a hungry squirrel? Hehehehehehe! Help yerself!" And Threeclaw tossed him the haversack of food, which Matiya caught in excited paws.

This really wasn't as bad as he was expecting it to be!

* * *

It was official! Sharpfur hated hedgehogs. "Bath" did not seem to have the same meaning here as it did amongst vermin. Back at the Honest Bunch a bath had been a swim through the river-woodlanders though? Oh no. They had this slippery thing called soap, and naturally it had gotten into his eyes, turning them red and making them sore. Bubbles were everywhere, and there was this odd brush thing one was meant to use to scrub hard-to-reach places. Worst was that when the bath was over he had to have the beating of a lifetime with a long woollen blanket they called 'towels'. He was itching all over, his nose twitching uncomfortably at the unnatural scent that came from his body... not even his teeth had been spared and their once-yellow gleam was replaced with white-that was not what bothered him- what did was that anything he ate tasted of mint , even the air he breathed.

Hawthorn smiled theatrically at him, and passed a muffin. "You look _lovely_ Sharpfur! I'm sure your back feels much better!"

The weasel made to snatch the muffin out of her paw, but she pulled away just in time.

"Say please." Said Grollo scoldingly.

"I hate ye both." He growled.

"Oh why would you say something as _awful_ as that?"

The weasel's teeth gritted. He would not be humiliated by these creatures. He was Sharpfur of the Honest Bunch. Son of Silvertonge and Sickle-tail. He would go to Hellgates and back before he said please! "Just give the muffin here."

"Not until you say please." Hawthorn taunted.

"Just give it."

"Please."

"I _beg_ of you." He said angrily.

"That's not the _magiiiiiiiiiic woooooooooooord!_ "

"Rot in Hellgates!" He snapped, diving for the muffin and succeeding in catching thin air.

"Too late!" Hawthorn laughed, and stuffed the whole muffin into her mouth.

Sharpfur wanted to kill her then and there. If he had his dirk, he would have. But he didn't and the old hogmaid came back now, looking extremely joyful.

"I'm so glad you're all getting along! Now would anybeast like to read a story? I'm a bit tired."

"I can read." Hawthorn said politely.

Grollo shrugged.

Sharpfur went for another muffin.

"How about you, weasel? Why don't you read one of them stories over there?"

Sharpfur seethed, stood up, picked up the book, held it upside down and began reading. "Once upon a time an evil verminy warlord called Villainous Vermin MacFangface attacked the Great Haunted Abbey of Red Bricks. The Deadly ghost inside pushed him off a cliff, and being so fat and ugly MacFangface crushed his army underneath him as he fell. The end."

All was silent. Then Hawthorn and Grollo began laughing while the old hedgehog looked at him in bewilderment. "That's the legend of Martin the Warrior. There ain't no Macfangface."

Sharpfur shrugged. "Does it make a difference." He shut the book and went for a muffin.

"You can't read!" Grollo realized suddenly, and began laughing loudly. "You can't read! Hahahahahaha!"

"Yes I can!" He snapped, his fur bristling. Then it flattened again. "Okay... I never learnt no squiggles but still-"

"I will not hear of this! From this day forth young weasel, you will receive an education!"

"Edjucation?" He doubted he would like whatever 'edjucation' was either.

"Yes! I will teach you to read and write if it kills me! Mark my words!"

Hawthorn and Grollo were kind enough to not look at him while they laughed their heads off.


	22. King of the Northlands

Sharpfur soon learned that he hated education.

"No! Nononononononono! I know moles who can spell better than that! That's _awful! Why that's not even a letter!"_

The worst thing was the constant snickering of his companions in the background.

"See this." The hogmaid drew a large 's' onto the sheet of paper. "This is the letter 's', you see how it looks like a snake-"

Sharpfur's paws twitched under the table. He was sorely tempted to punch one of the hedgehog's teeth out. As he let her prattle on about whatever 'a' was, he couldn't help thinking about how thick woodlanders actually were. 'S' did not look like a snake, not at all, it was just a pointless squiggle. All of it was just pointless squiggles!

"Can you see how this looks like a-"

"No. No I can't see. Because 'F' don't look like a flippin' snake, and 'a' ain't an 'e' upside down, and an 'o' ain't a 'd' or a 'b' with a tail! I can't see any of it and it don't make sense te me! And what in Hellgates do yer mean when ye say 'Kapitol?'"

Grollo and Hawthorn didn't even try to hold back their laughter. Sharpfur felt tears welling up behind his eyes. One day... one day those daft, dumb, dull woodlanders would pay... How had he gone from Greyclaw's boss and best friend to this... victim.

"Oh no it's alright! You don't need to cry! You'll learn, I promise!"

Grollo and Hawthorn laughed all the harder.

"Here... mayhaps it's your eyesight. Let's see if I can fix it for you." The hogmaid stood up and walked out another door. The second she was out of earshot Sharpfur stood up and began searching the room.

"I'm so proud of you weasel." Hawthorn said, beaming widely.

"Aye. You had better come to the Abbey with us. Abbot Martin would be delighted to meet you." The two laughed ever harder.

Sharpfur spun on his heels. "Laugh! Go on laugh! Laugh while ye still can! Coz when we get back and all yer friends are dead I'll be the only one left laughing! Ha!"

Hawthorn's face went very pale. "They're alive," she said determinedly.

"Unlike your rat." Grollo shot back, all good mood stolen away.

Sharpfur felt something punch through his chest, and for a moment his face flashed with worry, then he replaced it again with anger. "Greyclaw's worth more than all of yer pals put together! And smarter too! He'll be alright! But ye... ye won't! Just wait and see abbeydwellers! Just ye wait!"

"Are you going to cry?" Grollo mocked, his face hardened by hatred.

Sharpfur felt his claws tearing into his paws as they curled into fists. He could feel the tears coming. Greyclaw was nothing without him... He had to change the subject. So he sat down again, breathing deeply. He turned back around, so that he did not have to look at his 'friends'. When the old hedgehog returned she was surprised at the quiet, sombre mood, and especially by how much more focused Sharpfur was on the papers in front of him. She couldn't stop herself smiling.

"I've asked a good friend of mine to give me something for your eyes. I'm sure they'll help a great deal with your studies! Now, where were we?"

 _Hating edjuctation..._ thought Sharpfur grimly. Then cunning thoughts of escape filled his mind. "Yer friend sounds like a wonderful person, marm. I'd be delighted to make his acquaintance."

Hawthorn raised an eyebrow. _Where did he learn the word 'acquaintance'?_

"You would? I'm not sure... it's cold outside and he lives quite far away. And your back is still healing."

"Ye came back quickly enough, marm. I'm sure if ye told me which way ter take I'd be back afore nightfall." He said, giving his most winning smile. The second he was out of earshot he was running out of this posh-hole, out of edjucation and out of baths. _Ha, wouldn't that be a big joke, eh woodlanders?_

"Back afore nightfall... back afore nightfall..." It was as if the words had triggered a memory. Then she shook herself out of the trance. "No, no, no. I don't think so. No too cold, and almost night already. Rest! Now that's what you need! A good long rest! You've been a very good little boy today!" She said this while tugging at his cheek. He restrained himself from clawing at her paw. "I promise you, before you leave mine humble home, that you will know the entire alphabet!"

 _Alphabet? He had to learn something else as well?!_

"Now come along you three. To the bedroom."

It was far too early to go to sleep, but they let themselves get tucked into the warm beds nonetheless. Sharpfur was annoyed that he had to share a room with them, and was reminded bitterly about how much he missed Grey.

As soon as the old hedgehog had closed the door, Sharpfur waited a while. Then he shot out of bed, checked the keyhole, and made sure she was not in the sitting room. Then he started pacing up and down.

"Crumpet for your thoughts?" Hawthorn offered, trying to ward away the vague awkwardness that surrounded the silence in the air. She felt ever so slightly guilty that they had almost brought him to tears, but then again he had started it.

"That hedgepig... she's hidin' something." Sharpfur said.

Grollo looked at him. "Are you mental? Just coz your kind can't be trusted with anything don't mean she's hiding anything."

"Yeah, yeah. Go on and side with the goodbeast... she's hidin' somethin'... I know she is. She came back quick enough didn't she? But then I ask to go and she says her mate lives far away, eh?"

"Oh please. She just knew you were going to run away the second you put your footpaw out that door." Hawthorn said calmly.

"How do ye know that?" Sharpfur snapped.

"I didn't. You just confirmed it." She sighed. "You'd think after escaping cannibals together you'd at least try and trust us a little. I mean we did save your life."

Sharpfur gritted his teeth and sat on his bed. "Well... that was yer fault..."

"Next time we won't do it." Grollo promised.

The room fell into silence.

"Sorry we insulted your friend." Hawthorn started.

Sharpfur looked at her oddly. What was this mouse playing at now? "Yeah... whatever." He said non-comitally. Then he went back to pacing as thoughts of escape filled his mind.

The silence returned once again.

* * *

"Does this snowbeast look like me?" Greyclaw asked neither companion in particular. It did in fact, look a bit like him. It didn't have the legs or the paws, but it had a nicely round belly and a grinning face, adorned with mismatched teeth.

Jack looked up and frowned. "Misses a tail. Haven't got a worm or anything, have you old chap? Shame. It would look pretty bally good if it had a tail."

"And was grey instead of white. But it's not bad." Added Tibbers.

Greyclaw waited patiently.

"What is it Grey?" Tibbers asked with a frown. The shrew's shoulder was much better, the wound having died down to a tiny scar. Communicating with Grey Claw was not an easy task. One had to be very, very careful to not poke something where it was not welcome, for the rat was as soft as melted butter.

The rat shook his head. "Nothin'. I'll go see if I can find something to use as a tail." Grey Claw fell to all fours and began sniffing the snow.

The trio had done very little travelling. Jack-is-Lucky was certain that they were headed the right way, but Tibbers was not so sure. He had seen two winters, and both times had been from within Redwall. If it was spring, summer or autumn then he'd have managed to find a way back-of this he was certain. But when everything was carpeted in snow it was hard to keep track of anything. The trees were mostly naked and so were almost indistinguishable. But something was telling him that they should have stayed by the river... _Well it's my own fault, isn't it? I'm the one that suggested we leave it._

The trio had found a den, filled with acorns and hazels of some forgetful squirrel. They ate nuts and set fire to the shells to keep warm. The shelter was dry, but provided no comfort from the heat. Or rather the lack of heat. They slept uncomfortably close for warmth, and had developed something of an awkward friendship.

* * *

Whimper felt his jaw go slack as they came in view of their destination. Besides him Clogg chuckled.

It was a dark pile of stone facing the sea, with holes carved into it's side to serve as windows. An especially long spire stood out from the center, with several other, sharp and claw-shaped towers reaching upwards till they seemed to touch the heavens. Between the towers and several lumps of snow too large to be called hills but not quite large enough to be deemed mountains, seemed to be a large, open ground of thinner snow. Walls of dark stone were decorated with spears, and skulls of long-dead, long-frozen beasts. Guards stood in their stations, holding spears, upright and rigid. The whole place foreshadowed doom and gloom and death and decay. Whimper felt the temperature drop around him.

"Home sweet home, eh?" The rat said, nudging him lightly.

"Yes." He lied automatically. "Home..."

"Hehe, Longclaw's been busy then." he said, looking up at the collection of skulls. "Traitors, all of 'em got a summon. They were too proud to show up. But they turn up in the end Whimper, they turn up in the end. Heeheeheehee."

"Summon?"

"Longclaw's coronation. See, between yous and me... the world could do with some changin'. Yer father started it before ye were born, aye. But he's dead now, and somebeast's got ter do it. Seems fitting it's Longclaw, isn't it?"

"I suppose." He didn't know who Longclaw was, or what his father had 'started'.

"I'll tell ye more when it's all ready, but fer now ye don't have to worry about anything. Just look forwards to the feast."

He did not know why the word 'feast' made his stomach sink of it's own accord.

* * *

Longclaw stretched his claws out to their fullest, sharpening them against a small whetstone. He found he liked the sound. It helped him think.

"Father, why are you sharpening your claws? You only do that when you're about to fight somebeast. Who are you fighting? Father? Father?" What did not help him think was the abomination in front of him. Plump and short, Bork's eyes twinkled as he looked up at the cold, quiet figure of his father. His voice was like a constant chipping of a hammer against an icy lake.

Casually, Longclaw put down the whetstone and looked his son in the eye. The older vermin's eyes did not twinkle. "Don't you have somewhere to be?" He asked in annoyance.

"No, Father. Father, I have the rest of the day free. Spitteeth said that somebeast was coming today. Captain Clogg or something... He said... there might be a feast."

"Aren't you fat enough?" The words were like a smack to the face for the smaller wolverine, who stepped backwards.

"Father... I didn't mean-"

"Look at me son." He ordered, and his son obeyed. "I am now King of the Northlands, soon Emperor of Mossflower, soon Conqueror of Salamandastron. I am building a world, _the world!_ I do not have time to be pestered by an overweight infant who's only good quality is eating and sleeping! Now get out of my sight."

"But father-"

His father's raised eyebrow silenced any further argument and so Bork turned away and left his father to his business.

Longclaw sighed deeply. He had had four sons before Bork. The first lay in the crypts after a 'tragic' accident. The second and third he had sent across the world to bring back something that did not exist. He was well and truly rid of them. The fourth had openly opposed him, and his skull now hung from the gates along with his followers'. He wondered when he would finally be rid of the fifth...

* * *

Bork wondered through the castle. He hated his father. Always angry with him, always thinking and planning and never doing anything! "So what if I'm fat! I've got a good appetite! It's healthy.l. anyhow I'm stronger than anybeast here!" He had never understood why his father was so sick of him. He wasn't dumb... he didn't get into trouble. But mostly Bork was angry with himself. Whenever he saw his father he kept on getting excited and happy, and hope filled up within him. Hope that maybe one day his father would appreciate him. But then he was dismissed and left angry with everything. _One day that stupid old man is going to fall off a cliff..._

* * *

Grey had walked some way away from their den when he found the perfect thing! Why it looked just like a tail! It stuck out from a pile of green bushes, and even seemed to move ever-so-slightly, just like how a tail ought to! He grabbed the pink thing and gave it a sharp tug.

The yelp of pain, and the giant, painted rat rising from the bushes was enough to tell him that what he had found was indeed a tail. "Lost are ye?" The rat growled, his eyes hungry and eyeing the rat's prominent stomach.

"Er..." What had Sharpfur always done when confronted my somebeast he would rather not talk to? "Er... behind you sir!" The young rat's insistence made the larger rat half turn.

"Do ye think I'm dumb enough to fall for that?"

"Well you almost did." Grey Claw said, backing away nervously as the cannibal walked forwards. It had always worked for Sharpfur...

The madbeast did not reply, and merely licked his chops. Then it dove.

With agility that surprised him more than anyone, Grey ducked and let the vermin fly over him. Before he had a moment to think, panic set in and, screaming, he turned and ran.

* * *

 _Footnote: I've always liked the dynamic between vermin parents and their children. I mean in the books there was a wide array of different emotions. Some were loving, non-different, or actively plotting against each other._

 _Also wolverines are also vermin in the Redwall-verse, but not quiiiiiiiiite. A bit like wildcats you get some good and some bad (though there are only two wolverines in Redwall and ones the bad guy and the other... alas we never knew him...)  
_


	23. Welcome To The Northlands

Grey Claw burst through his intricately made snowbeast. He was panting, and sweating, and his eyes were wide and full of fear.

"What is it ole chap?" Asked Jack, holding a paw to his chest. The hare had been admiring the snowbeast when the real rat had exploded from it.

Grey gesticulated wildly behind him, sucking in gulps of air. But no words came out his constantly-moving mouth.

Jack looked at where he was pointing, and it was not hard to see the larger rat racing forwards. The hare screamed in terror and instinctively went for his belt. It was always a rule to have your weapon with you, sharp and well-looked after. Of course Jack didn't have his weapon, but the instinct would have made any of his tutors proud. The rat was upon them a moment later, holding a large rock above it's grinning head. Grey fell to the ground in a ball, his eyes shut tightly. Sharpfur would have scolded him for not pleading, but he was too scared to make words. Jack though had been trained in different ways, and brought a fist into the vermin's jaw.

"Ow my bally paw! Wot's your teeth made out of? Lead?!"

The rat stumbled back to his feet, rubbing his hurt jaw. "What's yer paw made out of? Meat! Hehehe!"

The same rock he would have used to kill them was brought down onto his head by Tibber, knocking him down to the floor. "What is wrong with the pair of you?"

"I-I... nothing! I had him right where I bally wanted. One good swing and he'd have been chewing with his tail! Ha!"

"That's not possible. You can't chew with your tail." Came the shrew's deadpanned reply.

Grey got up timidly. "I... may have tried to pull his tail off..."

Both looked at him with wide eyes.

"I... didn't know he was a rat. I just saw his tail sticking out of the bushes and thought it looked like mine." Tibbers and Jack shared a look of incredible shock. "Now... er... do we loot him?"

All three turned to see the rat was on his paws, jamming two claws into it's mouth. It blew and out came a shrill whistle that sent shivers of fear down all their spines. "No." He said, after he was done blowing. "Now I rip you all to pieces for-"

Jack brought the rock down on his head again. "Kind of busy at the moment, wot wot. Maybe next time! Alright chaps! This is our call to action. We had better get moving now!"

* * *

If the outside of the palace had seemed gloomy it was nothing to what lay on the inside. It was colder within than without, with halls marked with countless skulls of long-dead beasts. The floors were polished so thickly one could see their reflection looking back at them. A constant shiver passed through Whimper as Trammun Clogg's crew were led forwards by a rat with fur as dark as his heart. It wasn't just the cold, he admitted to himself. The grinning skulls helped too, but there was something else that made the place so horrific. It was like a nightmare. And empty. So far the entire palace was empty, as if nobeast lived here. Their footsteps echoed horrifically from the walls and not a word was spoken amongst anybeast, even the toughest and most hardened corsairs in Clogg's company seemed afraid.

Except Darkhide, Her eyes darted to and fro with casual boredom, and only settled once, when they had caught him staring. He did not like the smile that had crossed her lips then.

Then at last, when Whimper could bear it no longer, they reached a great hall. Seated upon a throne, taller than anybeast, in a robe of soft, dark silk, and wearing a crown that looked like the castle they were standing in, was Longclaw. A wolverine, with a cold stare now fixed upon his guests. His eyes never seemed to smile, but that was what he did now. "Ah. Welcome. The journey was profitable?"

"Immensely." Clogg replied, grinning from ear to ear.

 _They are friends... they won't hurt us._ Still he scanned the row of faces in the hall. There was one fox, scarred across the eye and missing an ear and a tooth. He stood besides his king with a sword drawn. It was pale white, like milk, and sharp enough to cut a beast in two without spilling a drop of blood. Another figure, who wore a long cloak, stood on the other side of the king, and turned to whisper something in his ear. _They're friends for now, you mean._

"Trammun Clogg. You have done well." Then the solemnity fell about them. The wolverine snapped two claws together. "Why are they shivering? These are my good friends! Spitteeth, see to their accommodation immediately, and bring forth food and drink! Clogg, be seated."

The fox called Spitteeth sheathed his blade and marched forwards, eyeing the pirates with dislike. Many gave him looks of disgust back, but more looked at the sheathed blade hanging from his belt. Whimper found himself staring at his feetpaws. Silently he motioned for them to follow and with a final affirmative nod from Clogg they turned and went. One by one the crew vanished into their allocated rooms and closed the doors behind them. Scringewhiskers was the last to go with a flourishing bow and a grin.

That left Whimper with Spitteeth. The young ferret half-walked half-ran to keep up with the grown fox's long strides. "You new?" His tone was uninterested.

"Er... well... no."

"How comes I've never seen your face before?" His eyes were narrowed and cold.

"Well I don't think I've ever been here before."

"Ah. You were promoted recently. Tell me, how does one so young get promoted to Captain?"

"C-captain? I'm not a captain. I'm just the..." Whimper went silent. "I..." A pressure in his chest was squeezing for answers, but he did not know what he was. The fox kept on looking at him suspiciously. "The... Captain's er- nephew."

"Captain Clogg? That fat rat's yer uncle, eh?"

"Nuncle." The word sounded familiar, he must have said it before.

The fox shrugged and turned away. Whimper followed until Spitteeth put key to lock, twisted and gave the ferret a 'gentle' shove into his chambers before closing the door behind him.

It was plain, with a bed in one corner, a table and a barrel of water in the other corner. There wasn't even a tapish. "Good friends, huh?" The room was cold and had a thin cut in the wall that served as a window. Poking his head out he was surprised to find how high up he was, he didn't remember encountering any stairs, and the ship was far below.

He lifted his head at the sound of giggling and was surprised to find somebeast closing the door.

"Who are you?" It was a little wolverine, though still twice his mass. Fat and broad-shouldered.

The wolverine spun around and saw Whimper standing there. Suddenly though the child was not the most important thing in the room, for in his paws he held a great collection of muffins. They frowned at the sight of him.

"What are you doing here?" They said in a tall, commanding voice.

"It's my room." Whimper snapped.

"My castle."

"No it's Longclaw's."

The wolverine frowned at the ferret. "My _father's_ castle. Now, who are you?"

"Whimper."

"I didn't ask for your name midget!" Snapped the thief.

"I gave it anyways fatty!" Whimper snapped back, edging away defensively while the furs on his back prickled.

"Say that one more time!"

"Fatty! Fatty! Fatty! Hahahaha Fat-teeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeee!" The wolverine grabbed him by the throat, all muffins lay on the floor, forgotten. Whimper was surprised by how easily the wolverine lifted him off the ground.

Bork tried to sound like his father. "Manners, manners... where would we be without them? Now apologize."

"I'm sorry." Whimper squeaked immediately.

Bork shook him like a rag doll. "Not good enough."

"I'm sorry er-your Majesty."

Bork let him drop to the floor. "Better." The wolverine turned back to the muffins and sat against the door, chewing on them delightfully while Whimper rubbed his throat.

A thousand insults made themselves present in his mind, but Whimper thought better of them. "So... you're Prince?"

"What are you?" Bork demanded.

"I'm a ferret." Whimper replied automatically. He gave a nervous chuckle at the deep scowl on the wolverine's face. "Well... I'm Captain Clogg's nephew. So er... yes."

"Well I'm Prince of the Northlands." He said, his chest puffed forwards with pride. "Meaning one day this whole place will be mine and I'll be able to do whatever I want." He fell back with a contended sigh. "As soon as father's out of the way anyway." He chose another muffin and chewed at it thoughtfully.

"Can I have one?" Whimper asked, pointing at the pile still at his feet. "Please." He added as an afterthought.

"Oh what, one of these?" Bork held up one of them, it was dotted with dried strawberries. "No I don't think so. Too good for you."

Whimper gritted his teeth and chose a different tack. "Some Prince you are. You have to rob food from your own kitchens. I wonder what your father would say about that."

Begrudgingly a muffin was kicked his way. "My father doesn't know. Of course many beasts don't know many things. Perhaps you'd like to know what it feels like to crack like an egg."

"Somethings are best not being known." Whimper said. They grinned, hit their muffins against each other and were silent as they chewed down the pile.

At long last when it was done Bork lay against the door, patting his stomach happily. "So what was your name again."

"Whimper."

"I'm Bork."

They shook paws, or rather Whimper's paw was temporarily crushed within his friend's iron grip.

"Corsair. I always thought you lot were a pile of stinking fishmugs."

Whimper shrugged. "Most of them are."

They laughed at this and Bork rose, and towered over the still-seated ferret. "Say tiny, would you like to see what this castle looks like?"

Whimper stood up and grinned up at him. "Lead the way fatty."

For a minute Bork's face darkened. "Call me fatty again and you'll know what _flying_ feels like."

"Call me tiny again and you'll know what _flaying_ feels like." Whimper snapped.

Bork laughed. "You're funny." They were silent for a moment, before Bork opened the door. "Come on."

* * *

Light blinded them as a door, hidden somewhere in the walls, burst open. Somebeast tried to swing, and was promptly kicked in the stomach.

"They haven't got their cuffs on... corsairs, always slow-minded." Said a voice. "Well what are you doing standing there for! Get those beasts tied and on their feetpaws."

Momchillo was grabbed by the scruff of the neck by something strong, and two more tied his paws behind his back. Sickletail bit off an ear and was punched repeatedly. Silvertongue roared with rage and tried to tear forwards, but was held back by the ropes that held him.

"SILENCE!" Boomed a voice, and silence was restored. The speaker stepped into the light. It was a stoat, tall and slender, with a whip hanging casually from one paw. "Good. You know how to obey." It cackled wildly. "Get 'em moving."

Momchillo and the Honest Bunch were half-dragged, half-carried out of the darkness, where they were stood in a straight line. The slavemaster walked up and down the line, admiring his catch. "Five of you, eh? Right let's see." He pointed at Silvertongue. "Kitchen." The weasel was dragged away. "Kitchen." He said, pointing at Sick-Eyes. "Tailoring." Sickletail was taken away. "And you two are with me." He grinned. "Mining."

* * *

"Woah." Was all Whimper could say.

"The Bridge of Skulls they call it." Provided Bork. It was a narrow bridge of rope and wood that lead from the Southern-most Walltop to the peak of Mount Bloodhelm, named after the red sandstone that was visible through gaps in the snow. A gate stood between them and the bridge. A gate of red metal decorated with strange writing. "It takes you to the top of the mountain, then down the mountain you have Blue Lake. Snow, snow, snow! Hahahaha! I'll be king of ice and snow one day."

"Yeah..." Whimper froze at how high up they were. The wind was howling in his face, and his ears were threatening to freeze off and crumble. He found his paws left the ground and Bork was holding him by the scruff. "H-hey!"

"What? You wanted to see the Northlands, you can't see it from down there."

"B-but if you d-drop me-"

"I'm not an idiot. And I'm not gonna drop you."

The ground was far below him. A sheet of snow. A sheet of snow thick enough to bury him. Whimper felt his heart beat rapidly as he dangled over the side of the wall, sweat built up on his brow and froze there. "B-bork, c-can you put me down n-now? P-please?"

Bork let go of his neck and for a moment he was plunging downwards, screaming. Then he stopped falling and realized Bork now held him by the tail. The wolverine dropped him back down on the floor before falling on his back and laughing.

"You should have seen your face! Hahahahaha! And your scream! Hahahaha! You scream like a little girl! Hahahahaha!"

"I do not!" Whimper snapped, his face pink with shame and anger. He stared down at his feetpaw. The sensation of being hung over the walls... there was something familiar about that... Something... something... red? Maybe it was the fear, he was called Whimper after all.

"Yeah you do. You scream like this. 'Eeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeep!' Hahahahahaha!" It was a while before Bork stopped laughing and wiped away the tears that had built up. "Oh boy Whimper...Haha! Me and you are going to be the best of mates."

 _Somehow I doubt that._

* * *

"I don't know what it is exactly, but the properties of red sandstone are immensely powerful, some even call it magical. It is tough, durable, and pretty. What more could you want, am I right? In the morning you will be brought here. You will work hard and you will eat. Rinse and repeat. Collect the sandstone and only the sandstone, and bring it to construction. Do it slowly, and you'll get a lash. Protest, and you will get a lash. Disobey, and you'll loose your heads. All good? Yes? Excellent! Now get to work."

Momchillo paused in front of the sandstone dumbly, and was whipped hard for it.

"That's your first warning. Now hurry up! It's going to be a long day!"

For a moment he was tempted to take the rock and bring it down on the cursed stoat's head, but Deathglare must have known, for he was between them in a second, collecting the rock with shackled paws.

When the slavemaster was out of earshot the pine marten frowned at him. "Getting yourself killed in hopeless heroics is one of the stupidest things you can do mouse."

"It wouldn't have been hopeless if I bashed his skull in."

"Do you know what it takes to do something like that?"

"A rock. A lot of anger. Maybe some muscle-power."

"I see. You don't."

Momchillo opened his mouth to retort, but was whipped once more. "I'm warning you mouse. Get to work."

The pain was like a bee sting and he could feel his eyes going wet, but Momchillo picked up a rock and began chipping away at the impurities.

"Martin the Warrior was a slave once." He told Deathglare, who had still not left his side.

"How long did it take for him to escape?"

"Er...Several seasons..." Hope vanished once more.

"Good thing you're not Martin the Warrior."

* * *

"And this is my room." It was richly decorated with glorious carpets, soft silken cushions and a pile of sweet biscuits laying on a table, ready to be eaten.

"It's nice." Said Whimper, moving towards the pile of sweets.

Bork held him back by pressing a foot down on his tail. "Those are mine. And they're not stolen so you can't go and complain to father about them." Pushing him away Bork sat down against the table leg, a pawful of the biscuits now on his stomach as one by one he proceeded to chew them.

"So, what do you do? Aside from eating?" Whimper asked, his eyes still scanning the room.

"Oh well, I fight in the practice yard and then I have lessons with Spitteeth, he's the fox with the fancy white sword and then I have to study history for a bit."

"History's the worst." The young ferret said automatically. Then before he knew what he was doing he was ranting. "So many stupid names and places, who even cares about Marshank anyways? And Abbot Martin always gives me the difficult questions! The stupid old mo-" He stopped. Abbot Martin? Who was Abbot Martin?

To his surprise Bork was passing him a biscuit. "I _know_. History is pointless. It's not like I can change the past anyways, right? When I'm King I'm going to tear up every book in this castle."

Whimper pushed away thoughts of Abbot Martin and began chewing the biscuit. "In that case, I can't wait for you to be King."

* * *

"OI! Mouse!"

Before he could get his fifth lash Momchillo spun around and showed off the bucket full of red sandstone he had filled. "I finished." he said through gritted teeth.

"And thought you'd have a little break, did you?" He was smacked across the cheek. "Get that to construction, now."

"I... I don't know where it is."

The stoat growled in annoyance. "SPIKE! Come 'ere ye dumb hedgepig!"

The hedgehog turned shakily. "I'm w-working h-hard sir."

"Good good! Your bucket's almost full, get that to construction and show this mouse where it is, alright?" The shaking hedgehog nodded and went away, Momchillo followed him.

"You new?" He asked when he was sure they were out of earshot.

"First day." Said Momchillo glumly.

The hedgehog frowned sympathetically. "Nothing you can do for it, I'm afraid. Just do as you're told. They won't hurt you then...b-but... if you do anything bad, they hurt you. You g-get hurt. You don't want to be hurt, do you?"

Momchillo shook his head.

"G-good. J-just do as you're told."

"So where are you from?"

"D-doesn't matter now. N-nothing matters now. Just be good. Be good. You want to be good don't you?"

Momchillo felt his paws curling into fists. This poor creature must have been here for a long time. "I want to kill that stoat."

"NO! NO! N-no! Then, then, they hurt all of us." The hedgehog grabbed him by the paws. "Promise me! Promise me you w-won't!"

"I w-won't. I p-promise." The hedgehog let go of him, and as if he carried plague hurried forwards a few feet. Momchillo stood there, stunned. Never had he seen anybeast so scared.

He glanced up at the huge castle that lay ahead. _Welcome to the Northlands._ He thought bitterly.


	24. Any Idiot Can Tell A Rat From A Mouse

"Hellllllllllllgates!" Roared Sharpfur snapping the book shut and throwing himself to his feet. "That's it. I'm done. That stupid hedgepig can go drown in her books! I can't read _squiggles_ and I _will not_ read squiggles!" That was when he realized that nobeast was in the room. "Figures. Now ye all left me behind with old spikey macmuffin." Grumbling he checked the sitting room and found nobeast there. He marched forwards determinedly, chose one of the many doors and felt the world go a bit colder around him. "Haha, so this is the way out." There was a door at the far end of the corridor which he slunk towards as silently as he could. He reached it, and smelt the fresh air behind wood that had been charred black long ago.

"Sharpfur." He jumped at the sudden noise and spotted Hawthorn standing at the other end of the hallway.

"Do ye mind?" He growled, his half-healed back-fur's standing on end.

"I heard shouting." She responded.

"Probably the hegdepig. Wouldn't surprise me if that oaf burnt all his fingers clean off." He lied, turning back to the door and searching it for a handle.

"It sounded like you." She continued.

He growled again. "I'm surrounded by woodlanders, in the house of some witch hellbent on teaching me how to do 'bay-sick masematics'."

"She's not a witch."

"Is too. You know my kind have got a story about somebeast like her. She had a house built of candy-"

"That would be horrible. One storm and it would all fall apart."

"And lured young'uns in, then she fattened them up and cooked 'em. I'm pretty sure 'edjucation' is just a fancy way of saying 'put some meat on'."

Hawthorn could not stop her little giggle. Then when the infuriated weasel turned to glare at her she could do nothing to stop full-blown laughter exploding out of her.

Sharpfur stomped past her, determined to find something to use as a light. He needed to find the lock to be able to pick it.

Hawthorn was shaking her head as he searched in vain. "Education is learning. It's when one beast decides to teach somebeast else something-in your case, how to read."

"Well I don't need to know how to 'reed'."

"It's useful though." Hawthorn insisted. "And it's fun, me and Rosebrush used to spend hours reading with the Recorder-"

"Rosebrush?" He sniffed, as if that name was familiar.

"The mole." She said flatly, hoping against hope that Rosebrush was back home, safe and sound.

"Ah. Well, I'm sure two damsels like you could find it very entertaining to spend hours on end doing nothing. But reeding didn't help you escape me or the cannibals, hence, it's pointless." He finished speaking and tugged at his ears in frustration. He only needed one frickin' candle!

Then came the witch. She smiled at them, and fussed over them, and made them sit by the fire, and gave Hawthorn a large book to read, while telling Sharpfur she had a surprise for him. This would have worried him more if he weren't too skinny to be eaten.

It was habitual that they sat as far away from each other as possible.

"Watcha readin'?"

Hawthorn jumped in surprise and heard the weasel's little snigger. "A book." She answered, closing it and showing him the cover.

He frowned at it. "A mouse, with a sword? Where have I seen that before again?"

She rolled her eyes. "It's Martin the Warrior."

"Aha." He still looked lost.

"The ghost that haunts Redwall." She explained.

"Ooooh, yeah I've heard of him. They say he was killed long ago by a great Warlord named Verdinga or something, and rose again every night until Greeneye's horde was no more." His voice was smug, as if he expected praise. He didn't expect her to snicker.

"Yeah... not really." She grinned. "If you want I could read it to you."

"Do I look like some two foot dibbun to ye?" He snapped, not noticing her laughter, then his face fell. "Ye were jokin'." It wasn't that large a trap, it wasn't that funny a joke, but Sharpfur was still bitter he'd fallen for it.

"Of course I was joking." Hawthorn read the next line of the book, but somehow teasing Sharpfur was so much more entertaining. "Like you'd be able to appreciate the literary genius in these words."

"Oh please, I know a dozen good stories for every one in that book." As expected, he took the bait.

Grollo found them a few hours later, carrying a tray of scones. Sharpfur was gesticulating wildly, in the middle of performing one of his dozen 'better' stories, while Hawthorn laughed and laughed.

"No I tell ye, it was the size of a cart and- alright foods here, game over." Sharpfur was glad of the excuse, in truth he'd run out of old vermin tales pretty quickly, and had resorted to making them all up. He'd been beginning to run out of ideas when the food had arrived. He snatched a scone and chewed it vigorously. "You know, for a crazy witch keeping us locked in a hut, she does know how to cook."

"I cooked this actually." Grollo corrected, smirking ever-so-slightly.

Sharpfur's face fell. He hadn't meant to compliment the hedgehog. "Well... it's not the _worst_ I've ever tasted."

"My dad was a cook, so I've been making stuff since when I was little." He said modestly.

 _Great Sharpfur, great, get all comfy around the woodland worms..._ Against his better judgement and his stomach's complaints he refused to eat another bite.

Then the witch came, beaming so widely Sharpfur was sure he was about to get eaten.

"Now, Mr Sharpfur, my friend has proved immensely helpful with your issue and have made you your very own pair of spectacles!" She held out the giant round glass orbs, held together by a thin wooden frame. "This way you'll be able to see the words more clearly!"

Grollo fell on a chair laughing, and Hawthorn was clutching her sides. The weasel snatched them away, intent on ripping them apart, but a sudden shiver of pain through his back stopped him. Old Spike took the glasses and placed them gently on his snout. His eyes were magnified widely, and his voice came out uncomfortably nassaly.

"Wow. You're all so... stupid! Hahahahahahaha!" All of them looked to him like they were out of proportion. Grollo's left eye was bigger than his right and Hawthorn's nose was like a balloon. "Hahahahahaha!"

But to them he was the one that looked ridiculous. And as he heard their laughter he stopped his own. _Laugh... laugh with the woodland worms ye sorry excuse for a pirate._

* * *

"Well... we're doomed." It hadn't taken very long for the cannibals to catch them. They'd been hampered by Grey Claw's waistline, Tibber's shoulder wound and Jack's 'excellent' idea to switch directions.

"Not yet, old chap. I've got myself an idea."

Grey was ecstatic and clapped his paws in jubilation. "Oh joy! We're saved!"

"As long as it's not like your last idea." Tibbers muttered grumpily. His shoulder ached. Pain made it hard to think.

"It's an absolutely spliffin' idea! And simple too, don't cher know? We rush the door, and head for the woods." He paused, letting his confidence wash over his companions. A commander had to spread confidence.

Grey grinned. It was a plan worthy of Sharpfur.

The shrew sighed. "Oh well... why not?" Tibbers lined up beside them, and all three prepared to rush the door.

"On three." Jack was the fastest... he'd make it to the woods first. "One." Tibbers was the smallest, but almost anyone was faster than Grey on land. "Two."

"Hang on a minute! What happens if I get shot down?" The rat squeaked, his eyes wide with worry.

"We... stop and... pick you up." Tibbers provided. The shrew shook his head vigorously. "This is a stupid plan Jack, it'll get us all killed."

The hare deflated. "Well... would you rather die from a quick arrow to the back or... cooked alive?"

The three stared each other long and hard.

Confidence was of utmost importance. "It has been an honor... being er your captive and er- being tied to a mast with you... even if I was gagged. And er- surviving... yes, that was an honor too. So, er- let's give it a darn good go, eh chaps?"

Grey sniffled and shrugged. "I'll probably die anyways."

"That's the spirit!" Jack exclaimed before he could stop himself. _I'm really wondering why anyone thinks I'm lucky... "_ Anywhoooo, on three!" He steeled himself, and prepared for the sprint of his life. "One! Two!"

A loud scream cut through the air outside. Tibbers dived for a rapier that was not on his person and Grey grabbed at the hare's nearest leg and squeezed it tight.

All thoughts of running left their minds and all three were frozen in fear as the screams continued coming, and gradually grew louder and louder, coming ever closer and closer.

"It's a giant rat." Moaned Tibbers, shivering as he two, began holding onto the hare's leg.

"It's a hare-eating giant rat."

"It's a hare, rat and shrew-eating giant rat with seven teeth and a crooked tail!" Greyclaw sobbed.

Then the door shook as the screams continued to mount. Somebeast was kicking it. Somebeast large, and strong and hungry.

"Okay... whatever comes through there... we rush him, alright chaps?"

The door burst open and the jovial face of the Skipper peered through. Scared as they were, none noticed, and all went for the kill.

* * *

The slavers tossed him into the large cell, where he landed sprawling, a moment later Deathglare was tossed on top of him. Both were winded by the fall, and rolled back, panting.

Climbing to his feetpaws, the marten helped the young mouse back up. His one eye adjusted to the dim half-light, where the slaves slept in two untidy heaps and mounds. There was one clear difference between the sides though. One was filled with the thin and hungry squirrels and hedgehogs and mice and otters, and the other with starved and scowling vermin.

Momchillo recovered and nursed his chest. His ribs were soar and painful. He noted the way left and right seemed to glare at each other, though nobeast seemed to have enough energy to glare.

"Stay close kid." The pine marten commanded, walking straight towards the pile of chained vermin. Momchillo did as he was bid despite the prickles of fear rising on his back. He was about to point out that, as a woodlander, it was better if he stayed with his own kind. The pack of vermin glared at the newcomers, but Deathglare seemed unphased.

Compared to everybeast here, Momchillo felt uncomfortably pudgy. They could see it too, no doubt. Despite all that had happened, he still had his fair share of puppy fat.

"What's this then?" He could not tell what species the thing that stood in front of him was. Fur so filthy it was grey, teeth so brown they seemed to be made of wood, and chains of rusted iron. "Mouse, eh? Where you from, pup?"

Momchillo stumbled backwards as the creature advanced. "R-rat." Was all he managed to croak out.

"Do I look like some halfwit to you? Anybeast can tell the difference between a rat and a mouse." The sea of vermin were muttering.

Momchillo tripped over a chain. His heart was beating. He was going to die in the darkness, ripped to shreds by enslaved vermin. He opened his mouth, not knowing what he was going to say, when a wisp of cold air silenced the crowd.

"Let's make something clear." The pine marten's whispered voice made everyone around him silent, straining to hear everything he had to say. "This beast here is my booty." He pulled the mouse to his feet, and stood there for a while, making sure to give everyone around them a long, deep look into his eye. The vermin shivered, as if the cold of winter was upon them all. "You have something against him, you have something against me." He fixed the brown-toothed one with his gaze, and held it there for what seemed to be eternity. "And believe me when I say you don't want to have something against me."

The sea shivered once more, and Deathglare lead the way, Momchillo followed hastily. "Vermin are harder to control than you woodlanders. Sure we bend quicker, but we bounce back just as quickly... when it suits us. If you and I want to get out, you're better served over here, then over there." He indicated the huddle of miserable woodlanders.

"Martin the Warrior was a slave once." Momchillo found himself repeating, for what felt like the hundredth time. "He got out with beasts like that."

"Give or take seven seasons." The pine marten grinned. "Fairy tales won't get you out of here, but I just might."

* * *

"So... er... sorry we hit you." Grey Claw apologized awkwardly, clutching to the hem of Jack's long coat. It was positively frightening, being surrounded by otters. Once, he and Sharpfur had used his tail to go fishing... they'd caught an otter instead and the experience had been... traumatic. For all parties involved.

"No problem." Muttered the Skipper, rubbing a swollen lip. He had a black eye as well and a small, jagged cut on his footpaw. "Just next time, don't get yourselves caught so easily. Now, I know you." He nodded to Tibbers. "How's yer dad?"

The shrew shrugged. "Haven't seen him in a while. I imagine he's a bit worried."

"Good imagining. Yer a hare of the Long Patrol... well lucky for ye we're headed for Salamandastron." Jack grinned. Home... "And you are?"

"Greyclaw." The rat greeted.

"We picked him up." Jack offered.

"It's a long story." Tibbers nodded.

The otter seemed to be pondering something. "Greyclaw... doesn't sound like a mouse's name."

"Well... I'm a rat sir." His voice was timid and small.

To his surprise the large, burly captain gave a bark of laughter. "Any idiot can tell the difference between a rat and a mouse boy, and you are not a rat."

Whimper found himself staring at the dumb pictures. The dumb drawings in the dumb book the dumb rat had given him the dumb day they'd met. His parents... who barely resembled him.

It was strange, to be so worried about something so trivial. It made his stomach flutter and shiver, as if he'd swallowed a bug whole and it was now struggling to get out. He had everything anyone could want. Vittles and drink and a warm bed and servants and all the time in the world to do whatever he pleased. It was the last part that truly bothered him. All the time in the world... to feel uneasy about he didn't even know what.

And sleep would not make it better. Sleep never made it better.

* * *

 _Footnote: Okaaaaaaaay, this part is now complete. Obviously you can expect the story to continue, but there will be a timeskip, and er... that's the reason this chapter took... so... fricking... long... to come out. Sigh.  
_

 _I'm going to stress that this timeskip is important. The most important thing about it is actually how long it is. All along I have been writing this story without a set outcome. I mean I've had ideas about how it's going to end but those all fall under two categories._

 _While this fic does have a large cast of characters, ultimately Fret is the protagonist, and the story's main conflict is his morality/confusion/coming-of-age. So the endings have two possibilities... either he ends up 'good' or he ends up 'bad', though he'll always be somewhat in the middle. And because I haven't stuck to an ending, most likely this fic will go on hiatus for another while. Apologies.  
_

 _But either way, enjoy and update soon._


	25. Winter's End

Winter took it's toll on Whimper. Lack of sleep built bags around his eyes that seemed to grow bigger and bigger with each passing night. He had once mustered up the courage to walk all the way to the healer's room, but when he'd been asked what he was doing there a mad squirming in his chest had made him turn back around and leave. He spent many nights pacing along the cold floor, and it came as a surprise to everyone but him that he had caught a cold. He'd been unfortunate enough to sneeze on Bork, and after that the wolverine had been considerably more sour. His mind was wracked with a strange kind of obsession. He'd begun noticing things that did not match up, like the time he'd started ranting about an Abbot, as if he'd ever met one. Or the mouse he'd pushed into the waters below.

He hadn't seen the mouse drown, and in hindsight, it could have swum... but his head had conjured up vivid images of it, screaming the detestable word as water rushed into it's lungs. Fret. What did fret even mean? He'd searched every one of Clogg's dumb books and found no answer he liked. It was a kind of word called a verb and it meant 'to be worried' or 'in a state of whatever-anxiety-meant'. Then he'd searched endlessly for Anxiety. Perhaps it was a village somewhere in the Northlands. Instead it meant 'a feeling of worry, nervousness, or unease about something with an uncertain outcome', or some other long and boring thing like that. But it gave him no clues as to what was being hidden from him.

And indeed something was being hidden. Nobeast in the castle recognized him, they knew him now of course for Bork had introduced him, but the first few days nobeast had any idea who he was. One rat had even had the audacity to call him a slave. Whimper had clawed his eye for that.

Answers would not come from the burly captain however, for much to Whimper's dismay, he would leave the following morning. And the ferret was not coming.

"It's not fair." He said, surprised at how familiar the words sounded on his lips. Surprisingly 'Whimper' still felt foreign. "Ye get to pillage and conquer and reap and murder, I have to stay behin' an' read all these daft books." He had found it a necessity to put on an accent. It had become a necessity once Bork had begun pointing out that he spoke like a rude version of a woodlander. Bork knew an awful lot about woodlanders, for the wolverine often visited the slavepits below. Whimper had decided not to go in the end. Bork had called him a coward and started doing his whimpering sounds, the ferret had lost his temper and insulted him, and it ended like most of their arguments did, with Bork pressing the smaller vermin into the ground and forcing him to apologize. He hated Bork.

The rat only laughed at his complaints. "Whimper, ye can hardly lift a sword, let alone swing it. Besides, why would you _want_ ter come? It's me who should be envious. Ye get to stay here and read all these nice books all day long."

Whimper bared his fangs and the rat only laughed harder.

"Bork is going." The ferret continued complaining. Bork... stupid, slow and ugly, and the only reason Clogg was taking him was because the wolverine's stupid father was king of some stupid frozen rock. Stupidity seemed to be a common trait amongst them.

"Bork is going ter rule an empire when he's older. Moreover he's bigger and better than ye are." Whimper wanted to bite him for that, but Clogg had not said it harsh enough to deserve retaliation. "At pillaging anyways." The rat added as an afterthought.

"Ye said my dad was a conqueror. Ye said my mama was a conqueror. Yet ye act like I can't take care of meself." To be fair he was still small and sickly, and his arms were twig-like compared to pretty much everybeast in the Northlands.

"Yer not yer parents Whimper, try te understand." After roughly one minute of silent glaring from the ferret, it became apparent that he would, not nor would he ever, understand. Clogg withdrew the first book he'd ever shown the ferret. The one full of old drawings. He opened it to his father's portrait. "Ye don't look a thing like him." He flicked to his mother's portrait. "And ye certainly don't have any of her many talents." He seemed sombre for a moment, while he stared at the portrait in contemplation. He tossed the book in Whimper's direction. The ferret made no move to catch it and let it slide off the table and onto the floor. "I leave at first light Whimper. The next time I see ye, and I'm not talking about the feast, that doesn't count, I want ye to start acting more like 'em both, maybe then somebeast _else_ will see the resemblance."

Ah yes... there was going to be a feast tonight... for some reason the thought filled him with dread. "Nobeast can see the resemblance coz they're both dead and nobeast else stares at their pictures as much as ye." He snapped in anger. Clogg glared viciously at him and Whimper stared at his feet in shame. "Sor-ry I-I-"

"Just go bother some-beast else."

The rat stomped away, clearly slightly grumpier. Whimper picked up the book and stared intently at the portraits of his mother and father. Day by day he resembled them less...

* * *

Momchillo felt the crack of the whip against his back.

He had cooked before. Many times in the warm kitchens of Redwall. Of course Grollo's father would always watch over them as they worked, and most of the food they made was entirely inedible. But it had been fun to watch the vegetables bubble into soup and watch scones swell in the fire. Of course having Grollo there with him was what made it so fun.

Here though? The kitchen was a swamp of slaves milling about, doing as they were told. He'd been hand-picked along with some others to help cook a massive feast. Of course the warmth of the kitchen was a welcome relief after the freezing caves. It had felt like a reward at the time, until he'd realized that everybeast not 'helping out' got a few days of respite, and that the slavemaster had picked him just so he could whip somebeast.

"Come on mouse! Stir it quicker! Don't spill!" He cracked the tip of the whip against the young mouse's ear. Momchillo flinched, but did not give him the satisfaction of watching him flinch.

Deathglare was in the other side of the kitchens, helping chop up the potatoes and fish. Momchillo was glad he'd been stuck to stirring. The temptation to stab and kill his tormentor would have been too great with a blade in paw.

"So mouse, where you from?" The whip came down again. "Somewhere warm? Somewhere cold? C'mon, talk ter me!" The slavemaster cackled and brought the whip down again.

His laughter turned to a loud bark for everyone to 'Get those inter the ovens or it'll be you going in them!' The sudden order had once made Momchillo jump, but nowadays he knew what it meant. That a higher ranking vermin was coming to see what was going on.

"Prince Bork." The slavemaster greeted, bowing so low his nose touched the ground. Momchillo was sorely tempted to kick his rump and make the vermin fall on his face. But he dared not attract the attention of the wolverine.

He'd heard of them prior to coming to the Northlands, in the Tale of Rakkety Tamm and Gulo the Savage. That story had given him many sleepless nights. It was probably because they were famous for being cannibals and leaving behind only the bones of their victims. The Prince looked very much like Gulo the Savage come to life. Tall as a badger, with arms wide and burly. He cast a large shadow over the kitchens, and suddenly everybeast was working twice as hard.

The Prince snorted. "It would be less work to just fry up the lot of you." Now the speed doubled again. Bork now grinned in satisfaction and strolled back out to torment somebeast else.

"The soup's done." Momchillo announced, turning to the slavemaster, his face as emotional as a stone.

"Well then put it on the side! Must I tell yer everything?" He gave a long fake sigh. Momchillo lifted the pot and walked away as quickly as he could, managing to avoid another lash of the whip.

The mouse found Deathglare at the side, slowly and meticulously slicing a potatoe into cubes. The marten gave him the smallest of waves before he continued with the work.

The rest of the Honest Bunch were there too. Sick-Eyes was measuring herbs. Silvertongue was rolling dough and glaring at the two hedgehogs that flanked him. The weasel noticed the mouse's gaze, grinned a little, and spat into the dough. His wife looked like she wanted to reprimand him, but was not about to bring the slavemaster's fury down upon him.

Momchillo placed the soup on the side, and as slowly as he could made his way back to the slavemaster's whip.

Such, was life.

* * *

 _Footnote: Okay, after almost a year of writing this I've figured out an ending. Not gonna say what it is... but I don't think it should be too hard to guess where this is going from now on. Just a note now regarding chapters. I'm going to try and localize them. So for example you'll get one chapter for stuff related to Momchillo and Fret and the Northlands, another chapter for Redwall stuff, another one for Sharpfur, Hawthorn and Grollo, and another-ish chapter for Matiya, Grey Claw and the characters surrounding them. So those are like the... 'point of views'? I was kind of already doing this but then it was getting muddled. So that's the new system.  
_

 _Also another note is that a lot of the next few chapters will be set in the Northlands, up until something major happens (I don't think it's too hard to guess what will happen), then we'll go back to the others as well._

 _Final note is that the time-skip was short (so character ages are roughly the same). To give a rough idea of how much time has passed in-story. The Trip To The Otters was about mid-autumn, The Redwall Feast was early winter while the previous chapter was a bit before Mid-winter (all the other events took place in between those times) and now we're coming to Late Winter-Spring, though in the Northlands that still means piles and piles of snow and ice._

 _Hope you enjoy._


	26. Memories, Memories

The feast was, in Whimper's personal opinion, a waste of time. Or rather, it was a waste of time for _him_. How was he supposed to eat all fifty-four courses? He could barely keep anything in, let alone all of this food.

He was deemed too ill to drink, and if he could not get drunk than he was no fit companion for Bork, who seemed determined to wake up the next morning with a hangover fit for a king. On top of that the vast majority of the guests were strangers to him. At least two dozen captains and their retinues, all squabbling like seagulls at a beach. The King sat on a throne. He ate little and drank less, his eyes darting round the room, trying to smell a rat in a room full of rats. Clogg was one of the many squabbling captains. Boasting and yelling and drinking more than anybeast. He was flanked by his compatriots, who were watching the surrounding captains with similar, suspicious looks.

Clogg had explained the situation well to him. Longclaw was King of the Northlands, a large, arid, cold space in the far North. In other words he was King of barely anything. And he wanted to expand south, to do this he had to have the backing of corsairs, for their ships to carry his troops down to whatever part of the world he wanted to crush. Clogg was leading the expedition, and Bork was the figurehead. And Whimper was just a sickly ferret who had no idea what he was doing here.

A part of him wanted to be there instead of Bork, to lead from the front and watch the blood soak up at his feet. But the common sense in him knew that if pushing one mouse overboard was enough to deprive him of a whole season of sleep then any pillaging would be the death of him.

* * *

 _"Ye have to use your brain Whimper. Ye have to think. Think deeply now. How do ye get a bunch of dumb seaslugs to der what ye want? They hate ye, ye hate 'em. But ye've worked together before, but back then ye had someone they could get behind. Ye don't have that now. What do ye do?"_

 _The ferret mulled this over as best he could. "If they hate me, why not kill 'em and be done with it? They'd probably want ter do the same thing, wouldn't 'ey?"_

 _"Ah, but if we waste too much time killing yer potential allies, ye'll only have more enemies. It's not enough."_

 _"Well if ye worked together before just do what ye did before?"_

 _"And what is it that we did before?"_

 _Why was this so important? Still Clogg never shut up about the answer to this specific question. "United under me mum and dad."_

 _"Smart lad. Ye were right both times. They gotta fear ye, but they also gotta love ye. Even woodlanders know this. They smashed Kotir and built their own castle next to it-"_

 _"Abbey." Corrected Whimper automatically. "They built an abbey directly over Kotir."_

 _Trammun Clogg blinked in surprise and cocked his head to the side. "Castles and abbeys are the same thing. And what do ye mea- Directly over Kotir?"_

 _Whimper nodded, not sure where he'd gotten that information from... it wasn't in Clogg's books. "B-b-because ye know... fear and such." His heart was beating rapidly. How had he known that?_

 _"Are ye sure?"_

 _"Y-yes." He squeaked._

 _"Whimper... this... this is excellent!" The Captain grinned like a madbeast and snatched at a quill. The lesson was over it seemed, and now the rat was busy scribbling things all over a paper._

* * *

He was still unsure as to why that simple fact had pleased the rat so much. Or what 'fear' and 'love' meant in terms of Clogg's plan. But he had no doubt he was going to find out soon. Another course of food was brought, a kind of soup that stunk of onion and carrot. He sniffed at it, but knew fully well that he would not be able to keep anything down.

"Ye can take it away." The ferret told the weasel holding his bowl. His eyes rolled off towards the King once more. The huge wolverine was staring at one dark-furred fox that was glaring deeply at Clogg's exposed back.

"Frettie?" He sat up so quickly he felt like he'd been hit by lightning. The weasel serving the food was staring at him with wide eyes.

"W-what?"

"It _is_ you! Silvertongue remember? Ye know me son." The weasel leaned forwards and whispered. "How d'ye get here?"

"I-I... I don't know what you're talking about."

But the weasel seemed determined. "You're that one from Redwall. Ye know, that cursed abbey? Hey! Yer mate's here, the lil' mouse with the big ears-"

Whimper shook his head. "N-no! I don't know a-any mice." _Except the one I killed_. He shivered violently. "P-please go."

Now Silvertongue was annoyed. "I'm stuck here, chopping carrots in the kitchens, and yer pretending not ter recognize me. Deathglare and yer mouse are digging down inter the mountains. Me wife gets beaten by anybeast that likes the look of 'er. We saved yer life lil' Frettie, you owe us one."

Whimper shook his head vigorously. "I d-d-don't kn-ow." He was on the verge of tears. His head ached violently.

Silvertongue leaned forwards menacingly, his claws digging into the wood of the table. "Wouldn't want ter ferget yer old mate, would ye?"

There was a pain in his head, like something foreign was trying to bury inside. Once more he shook his head.

"What's the matter?"

Clogg must have been paying attention to him. The rat was glaring at the smaller weasel.

"Just trynna convince the lad ter have some soup is all sir." Said Silvertongue, bowing low. He was too clever to shoot a glare at the ferret, though he desperately wanted to.

"And who might ye be? Ter give yer advice ter the son of Mad-Eye Marik himself." For some reason Clogg said the last part rather loudly, so loud in fact that some of the other vermin were watching with interest.

"Just a 'umble servant, tryin' to do his best sir." Said Silvertongue through gritted teeth.

"I don't like yer tone." Said Clogg casually. He picked up a small knife that lay nearby, and held it in his paw. He pointed the blade at the weasel. "Ye know who Marik is, right?" The rat then addressed all those watching. "Ye all _do know_ , don't ye?"

There were mumbles of agreement. Whimper was frozen in place, watching the weasel with narrowed eyes. There was some resemblance to something he'd seen before. Perhaps all weasels looked similar? And he'd mentioned Frettie... whoever that was... The pain in his head was stronger than ever now, but he forced himself to watch.

The weasel straightened up again. "I do know."

"Smart beast." The rat said with a small smirk. He then slashed violently, tearing open one of Silvertongue's cheeks with the knife. "For all those who know Marik, what was it he used ter do? What was his signature? Tongue and Tail? Tooth and Nail? I can't seem to remember."

Silvertongue looked scared now. He tried to open his mouth and stammer another excuse, but Clogg's blade was still pointed at him.

"Tooth and Claw! Tooth and Claw! Tooth and Claw!" The hall was cheering loudly now, remembering the days they had spent with Marik and the successes they had had under him.

A stoat shoved Silvertongue into a seat, grinned wickedly and held him down. One rat grabbed a paw and lifted it into the air. The chanting was louder than ever now. Everybeast was cheering as loud as they could. Save for Whimper, who was frozen. The King who was still watching the silent black fox, Bork who was cheering 'wine and whisky' and Silvertongue, who was squirming frantically, trying to pull free and beg at the same time.

Clogg drove the knife into the weasel's fingers one by one, and with slow, deliberate strokes, tore off his skin and fur alike. Silvertongue shrieked and the cheering rose louder than ever, everybeast was shouting, and banging something. Many did not know who was being punished, or why. All they knew was that it reminded them of days long gone, when they had been the mightiest force in the world.

Just as the last finger was flayed, the pain in Whimper's head peaked, and then vanished. The ferret blinked. Silvertongue was tossed to the floor, clutching his paw in pain and sobbing into the floor. And then the cheering crowd lifted him out of his seat, as if he was a great hero or had done anything wondrous. In truth all he could see was the weasel's screaming face. He was placed down next to the King, who spared him barely a glance.

"Searats! Corsairs! Vermin of the North! Tommorow we set sail, we go south! For glory and war! For Marik's memory! We will slaughter any-beast in our way! We will take what has been denied from us for at least a hundred years! The badgers of Salamandastron and the hares of the Long Patrol have locked us up in the frozen wasteland for long enough! They call us vermin, and vermin we are! But if we're vermin, what are _they_? I will spit on their skulls, and burn their Cursed Abbey!"

There was much cheering, except from the black fox. Casually the corsair removed a gauntlet he wore round his paw, marched forwards and tossed it at Clogg's feet.

The hall was silent for a moment. Then there was the sound of steel on steel as the black fox drew a blade. Clogg laughed and held out his paw. Fleaback handed him a dirty axe.

"What's happening?" Whimper blinked in confusion, trying to stop his head from reeling, not that he could.

The King spared him a glance. "Your Captain has just been challenged. The rules of our society dictate that only the strong can rule. Whomever comes out on top, has the right to rule." The wolverine seemed bored. "Clogg will win. He always wins."

* * *

Momchillo had been drifting off when Deathglare shook him awake. The pine marten was grinning like a madbeast, and for a second the mouse was worried. He opened his mouth to find the source of his companion's joy, but was hastily shushed and beckoned forwards.

"A tunnel?" Momchillo stared at it with wide-open eyes. "H-how? W-wher-"

"Aye it's a tunnel. Used to be an old latrine pit by the looks of it."

"B-but h-how did you?"

"The other prisoners are a bunch of sheep. I reckon everybeast knows about this but is too scared to use it. All I did was make it wide enough for you to fit."

The mouse stared at the pine marten. "Me?"

"Does it look like I can fit in there?"

Momchillo opened his mouth, but was hastily silenced. "The slavemaster hates you, one of these days he'll get bored of hitting you."

 _He never will._ Momchillo thought bitterly.

"He will if he catches you. Now go. There's no time to loose. There's a feast going on tonight, which means everybeast'll be in the main hall. Stay away from the food and the noise and head for the gates. Go south. To your abbey, tell them about this place, and about where it is. And about who helped you." Deathglare was holding him by the shoulder. His grip was vice-like, his voice desperate. The marten had always seemed so calm and collected, almost at peace... yet now the mouse could see that behind that calm he was as desperate as he was. "Tell them to come quickly."

Momchillo stared up at the tunnel. _Climb up, get out, go south. I can do that much_. "Give me a lift."

* * *

Clogg brought the axe down hard into the fox's skull. Cheers exploded from everybeast as the blood pooled around the vulpine. The rat smirked lightly, basking in the glory. He caught Whimper's eye and winked.

 _It makes sense now. They fear him coz he can kill any of them. And they love him because they loved my father._ He stumbled away from the feast. He needed sleep. There was so much blood. Blood, blood, blood.

* * *

 _He was slipping and tripping. There was blood over the deck. A black rat was coming closer towards him. He was scared. His heart was beating like a drum, sweat trickled from his brow. There was a weight on his chest. The rat was standing over him, raising an axe. There was more blood when a sword plunged through the the back of his throat._

 _"Come on." Said a squirrel. "Let's put this... Behind us." Home was tantalizingly close. The woodlander reached his paw out towards him, Fret reached out to grab it. Then the ship lurched and his head hit the side._

* * *

He was in the hall, stumbling and tripping over the cloak. Fret. He was Fret. Fret was him. It was the name... Constance had given him. Constance... His momma.

* * *

 _"It's not fair!" Fret repeated for the fiftieth time. "They were gonna steal it with me too. But I'm the only one that had to help make more and I don't get to try them either."_

 _Constance listened to his ranting while she washed him with a large brush. Somehow she was used to this by now. Fret had a knack for getting into trouble. The first time somebeast other than her had picked him up he had nearly bitten their finger off. Of course that had been Connington. And only a few days ago he had been found next to the broken remains of a precious, intricately-made vase. He had denied it was his fault. His latest mischief had been earlier today when he had somehow been found neck-deep in one of the cook's most time-consuming dishes. The list went on and on..._

 _Presently, he popped a soapy bubble in annoyance. "Even you're punishing me!"_

 _"I'm not punishing you." Constance explained patiently. Fret required a lot of patience._

 _"You're making me do something I don't like. That's a punishment!" He snapped._

 _"No it's not Fret." He harrumphed. "Fret I'm only doing this because I care about you. Would you rather go around covered in sugar?"_

 _The ferret had no ready reply and only grumbled. Still Constance was up to the task. Several seasons of living with him had taught her a lot about patience. Suddenly, his ears flattened. "What is it?"_

 _"Nothing."_

 _"Oh come."_

 _"It's nothing."_

 _"Well..."_

 _"I said it's nothing!"_

 _"I think you missed a spot in the kitchens."_

 _Fret whimpered. Then shook his head and tweedled his thumbclaws. "Well, it's just that... if you're doing this because you care. Well, w-what about everyone else?" Try as he might to hide it (and he was trying) he sounded hurt._

 _"Fret..."_

 _"It's nothing. Just...wondering."_

 _Constance sighed. "Redwall will always welcome any who are good of heart." She said, lifting his chin up so that he had to look at her. Even then his eyes tried hard not to meet hers. "They care about you as much as I do Fret. They just don't realize it yet."_

 _For a moment his eyes met hers and were held there. It was a brief moment. Fret squirmed free from the hold on his chin. Quick as a flash he snatched the brush from her paw._

 _"I can finish up here." He said in a voice that brockered no argument. Constance almost reprimanded him, but decided the day had been long enough. Silently, with a small hint of worry, she left him scrubbing and brushing._

 _As soon as she was out of sight and earshot Fret dropped the brush. He found his eyes were watering and wiped them hurriedly. Constance had practically confirmed what had been a growing suspicion. The amount of times things had been unfair… It wasn't natural. It was always him, getting punished, getting blamed. The ferret of redwall. He hated his reflection. It was the final confirmation of the fact. He would never be welcome at Redwall._

 _Ferrets did not have good hearts._

 _Then he shook himself and wiped his tears again. So what if they didn't care? If they didn't he wouldn't!_

 _"Hey Fret!" Matiya came, practically bouncing towards him the next day. "Do you want to play 'it'?" Fret almost said yes, but remembered how quickly they had gotten cold feet the previous day, and how quickly everything had fallen on him. Literally. A growl came out._

 _"No!" He snapped and without pausing he shoved past and made his way home. The squirrel only blinked in confusion, before shrugging and running off to play with somebeast else._

* * *

Fret felt his feet giving out under him. He was not even sure where he was walking, all he knew was that life was not fair...

* * *

 _"It's not fair!" Constance was exhausted after what had been an exceptionally long day. But, she knew from experience, the day would not be done until Fret had ranted for a good half hour. "I never asked to carry the pies! I didn't want the pies! Then that stupid vole bumps into me and complains that I ruined her dress! Then all I said was that it looks better that way but nooooooooooooooooo she had to go and start crying because I was being rude, and that she had made the dress and had worked hard on it, then I got so sick and tired of listening to her that I shove another pie into her mouth and she goes an-"_

 _Constance got so sick and tired of listening to him that she shoved a pie into his mouth. Then with practiced diplomacy she lay a paw on his head. "Yes Fret. I know it's unfair. But right now it's late and you must be very, very tired after all that happened to you today, aren't you?"_

 _Fret grumbled as he chewed, then swallowed noisily. He opened his mouth to continue, but he had been much smaller back then and Constance had easily pinched his muzzle shut, before lifting him effortlessly off the ground and carrying him to his bed._

 _"Tomorrow will be a better day Fret. I promise." She said, as she lifted the blanket and draped him within it's soft folds._

 _How do you know that? He asked, without speaking, to her retreating back._

* * *

He was breathing deeply, practically panting for breath. His eyes were watering. It would never be a better day. No, nothing good could come out of something rotten, and he was rotten to the core.

* * *

 _"Fret!" Roared the Recorder. Somebeast had cut his favourite old book to shreds._

 _"It wasn't me." The ferret snapped immediately, backing away from the mouse. He had been smaller back then. Much smaller._

 _"Explain." He said slowly. "Why you were the only one with the key and have got a carving knife behind your back._

 _"Er... I don't have a knife." He said, dropping the carving knife to the floor behind him. Unfortunately it made a loud noise, and brought forth the Recorder's fury._

 _Quick as a flash the mouse snatched his ear and twisted it. "Ow, ow, ow, ow! Lemme go! Yowch!" He had stepped on the knife blade._

 _"Come on! Let's see what your mother has to say about this!"_

 _"Fret... why did you cut his book to shreds?" Constance was not well, and so the matter had been brought to his Nuncle. The two sat solemnly in the gatehouse. The mouse sounded anguished._

 _Fret did not reply. It was because the Recorder had 'accidentally' spilled a bottle of ink all over him._

 _Connington sighed deeply. "That was not a very nice thing to do."_

 _"But when he threw the ink on me he didn't get punished!" Fret snapped._

 _"That's because it was an accident." Connington explained slowly._

 _This had been many seasons ago. The small mouse had been bigger than him, though not by much._

 _"Maybe I accidentally cut his book up, eh? Nobeast thought about that before they went and started blaming me!"_

 _"That's because-"_

 _"Because books don't get torn up by accident! I know!" Hopping to his feetpaws Fret stomped off grumpily._

* * *

His nuncle... he'd killed his nuncle. The drowning mouse he'd pushed overboard... his nuncle. His nuncle who had always been nice to him, who had brought him his beloved yo-yo, who had... always tried so hard to get along with his nephew.

* * *

 _"Momma please! Everyone's always gone except me! I'm already different enough as it is!"_

 _"Fret, it's, it's dangerous! You can't swim and otter-food burns! You could drown! Breathe fire! Get lost! No, you're too young!"_

 _"But momma-" He whined._

 _"No buts! I'm sorry Fret, maybe next season."_

 _"You always say that!" Fret complained. "And I'm old enough. I'm not a dibbun momma please!"_

 _"But your finger's still hurt! And your chores and-"_

 _"Please momma, I'll be good! I promise. I won't lie, I won't fight, I won't do anything bad ever, ever, ever again!"_

* * *

He was surrounded by barrels and could still hear the distant sounds of cheering coming from the hall. But he could no longer cheer. His legs gave out from under him and he fell to the floor, sobbing uncontrollably. Life, as ever, was unfair.

* * *

The castle was eerily silent. He had expected anything from a hundred guards to sneak past, or one to mess with... instead he was greeted with nothing. His heart was racing faster than a hare. He too, was trying to be as quiet as possible. He could not risk making a sound. It would mean death for him, and would doom Deathglare and the rest. He shot up a staircase, three steps at a time, silently. He paused to see if he was being followed, his ears twisting nimbly around to see if he could catch the sound of approaching feetpaws. But there was no sound.

Momchillo continued, and scuttled forwards. Another staircase, another corridor, another left turn. Momchillo swapped directions when he heard the sound of cheering. He did not know how far he went, though the cheering had subsided considerably by the time he came to a stop. A door ahead lay open, and from behind it came the sound of sobbing.

The mouse bit his lip. If he turned back now he would have to go back to where the cheers were coming from. One sad rat would not be the death of him. He could creep past the door. It wouldn't be too difficult.

Steeling himself the mouse tip-toed forwards. The sobbing drew ever closer as he approached. He took a deep breath, and passed by the door. He glanced in the direction of the staring, and fell over.

Fret sat up to the sound of somebeast hitting the ground. "Mom-hic-chill-o?" He croaked, his mouth dry.

Momchillo had hated the ferret's guts the last time they had seen each other, but that had been a long time ago. After a winter spent slaving away under a mountain, in a land foreign to him, anything from home- even Fret -was a welcome sight. He grinned spontaneously, all past quarrels forgotten for the moment. "You have no idea how good it is to see you!" The mouse advanced.

There it was... another ghost coming to haunt him. Fret screwed his eyes shut as tightly as he could. His claws were digging into the side of his head. "I'm sorry! I'm sorry! I'm sorry! I'm sorry!" He rocked back and forth desperately. Tears were running down the side of his face, like raindrops on a window.

Momchillo was taken aback by the sudden, hysterical, apology. He had known Fret all his life, but did not remember seeing him like this, _ever_. The mouse was unsure of how to react. He stood up, and feeling a lot older than he was, he walked towards the ferret. "It's alright. It's fine." The mouse placed a paw on Fret's shoulder. The ferret shivered at the touch.

Blinking tears out of his eyes, the mustelid stared up at the rodent.

"You look horrible." The mouse said with a chuckle.

Fret sneezed into his robe, refusing to look back at the mouse. "So do you." He muttered bitterly.

Momchillo shrugged. "I think we've both been better. So... the others?"

The ferret blinked and felt his stomach drop. "I... hoped they were with you."

There was an awkward pause. Momchillo had a thousand more questions he wanted to ask. How had Fret gotten here? What had he been doing? But now was not the time for that. They had to leave.

"I guess we'll have to meet them back home." The mouse straightened up.

"H-home?" Fret squeaked in a voice so small it was barely audible.

"Redwall."

The ferret gulped audibly.


	27. Escape From Grinning Skulls

Fret walked at a steady pace behind the mouse. His feetpaw seemed to weigh a tonne each, and moving was neither easy nor enjoyable. His stomach was not helping. All of a sudden it was both hungry and growling, and more energetic than a march hare. His mind was racing faster than ever.

What was he supposed to say when he came home? Aside from the fact that the other dibbuns would no doubt blame him for getting captured in the first place, there was also the issue of the others not being in the Northlands. Perhaps they had returned, if so he would most certainly not be welcome, or even worse they were dead, which would mean their ghosts would be the ones tormenting him for the rest of his days. And of course, Connington. If he was dead, then it would be his own thoughts that drove him mad. And if he was alive... and he returned...

* * *

 _"Behold the traitor!" The crowd cheered like the pack of vermin at the feast. He was standing on a stool, a rope tied round his neck._

 _Momchillo grinned and stuck his tongue out at him. Constance was staring at him with disgust. Connington looked dissapointed._

 _Then the stool was kicked out from under him and Fret was falling._

* * *

Ferret-face met marble pillar with a _thud_. Momchillo bit back a clever way of saying 'watch where you're going' and tried to act as if nothing had happened. "How exactly do we get out of here?"

"W-well." Fret swallowed and focused his thoughts. "There's a rope-bridge on the... Southern-most walltops... er then there's mount Bloodhelm and there's a lake over that and... yeah. South. Redwall. H-home." He did not like the way Momchillo was staring at him.

"How do you know that?"

It was bad enough that he was doomed either way, but if Momchillo ever found out that he was the son of a brutal warlord and a Pirate Captain loved him like a father and that he'd seen a weasel's fingers flayed for talking to him... If Momchillo found out he would tell everybeast, and then... hanging would be considered a mercy. "Er, I was the Prince's... er- assistant." He still looked suspicious. "Well, he stepped on me a couple of times and hung me off the side of the wall so..."

Momchillo paused for a moment longer before nodding slowly. He looked like he wanted to say something, but then decided that that was not the time. "Alright then, lead the way."

So Fret did, heavy-legged he lead the way, his mind still racing wildly. The grinning skulls that stared at them from their perch on the walls... weren't helping. Then he stopped suddenly. He couldn't just leave! The yo-yo was under his bed and... a portrait of his parents would be nice... after all he had a book. Suddenly he started walking quicker, though not in the right direction.

* * *

Momchillo was gladdened by his companion's increased speed. He was only slightly disappointed when after a short while, the ferret barged open a door leading not to a rope bridge, but to a large, wide, and mostly empty room.

"Fret! We have to get out of here!" The ferret ignored him and dived under the bed. His paws clasped around the toy his nuncle had given him a lifetime ago. But the book... the book was not there... there was no book! He was panicking and then he remembered how he'd let it slide off the table and onto the floor. He growled, stuffing the yo-yo down his front.

"Fret!" Repeated Momchillo.

The ferret pulled himself out, looking slightly disgruntled. "I need to get something." He replied grumpily. Momchillo frowned and the desperate need to protect himself was squeezed forcefully at his chest. His mind scrambled for an excuse. "There's a gate and we need a key for it. So er, yes. I-er will get that. You. Wait... here."

Momchillo growled, but remained silent. He had to trust Fret... though there was always the possibility that Fret was betraying him. The mouse dived under the bed. Because the stakes were too high for trust to come into play.

* * *

Clogg's chambers were not locked, and the rat was nowhere in sight. He was probably still at the feast. That was good. The ferret made his way to the table, pawing the air in front of him in search of the book. A last he found it. Flipping open the book he found the portraits he'd first been acquainted with. The grinning, knife-weilding ferretmaid. And the silent, muscled brute that was apparently his father.

The door opened and to his horror, in walked Captain Trammun Clogg. It took every inch of self-control he possessed for him to not turn around and make a run for it. It was not easy. He'd seen the great, muscled, one-eyed rat flay off a weasel's fingers. He'd watched him fight his uncle tooth and claw. And yet... He'd felt the same rats' warmth and love. Strangely, it reminded him of Constance.

"Whimper! There ye are, kinda lost you after the whole flayin' thing. Sorry about that." The rat patted him on the shoulder. "But ye were perfect! Everybeast's with us now. See what I meant, love and fear. Fear me an' love you."

Fret made himself smile. "Yeah... heh-heh... glad I could help." He had helped unite a pile of murderous vermin to go pillaging south... another line on his long list of sins.

Clogg ruffled the fur between his ears. "Also... ye got yer wish. Yer comin' south with us Whimper. I'll pick ye up on the morrow. First light, be ready!"

The ferret blinked. "Heh-heh... You know I was thinking about that actually and-" He could not bring himself to wipe away the rat's broad smile. "I'll see you tomorrow."

"Sleep well!" The rat called after him. The pit of his stomach dropped. Guilt, most likely. "Oh an' Whimper. I kinda figured ye were puttin' on an accent, but best keep doin' that round the others."

"Er-right. Yeah. Yeah. Definitely." The rat beamed and relaxed on a chair. Fret turned and left, feeling his stomach sink even further, as if weighed down by bricks. _It's not bricks... just my old friend, guilt._

* * *

Momchillo was glad he'd chosen to hide under the bed. Not because Fret betrayed him. That would have been horrible. But the gargantuan footfalls of the drunk prince was so much worse.

"Whimper!" He hollered at the top of his voice. "Where are ye, ye lazy f'rret? C'mon! Wake up!" Bork tore the blanket off the bed and hurled it to the floor. It took him a full minute before he realized that there was nobeast there. "Whimper! We're goin' south! The both o' us! Hahahahaha! Bet ye'll get sea-sick! Ha! And if ye don't, I'll teach ye how to swim!"

Momchillo scrambled out from under the bed as the wolverine lifted the whole thing off the ground.

"Whimper! Don't be such a woodlander!"

Fret's heart skipped a beat as he rounded the corner into his room. The large, slopping form of Bork, lifting a bed clear off the ground was something right out of a nightmare. Worse still was that there was no sign of Momchillo. _He's abandoned me._

"There ye are!" The wolverine dropped the bed abruptly, and stumbled forwards, a grin growing over his face. "What's wrong? Cat got yer tongue? Hahahahahaha." The much larger mustelid advanced towards him. Fret did not have the self control necessary to stop himself from backing away. "Ye look scared? What's scary Whimper? Do I scare ye?" The wolverine snatched him by the scruff. In hindsight escaping would have been much easier if he hadn't been frozen in fear. A single claw jabbed at his stomach. Bork opened his mouth to say something, when a chandelier fell on him.

Fret landed on his feet, the wolverine teetered backwards and collapsed on the floor, snoring loudly. Momchillo came into view.

"What took you so long?" The mouse poked his head out of the door and searched left and right.

"T-t-took-" Fret stared in horror at the knocked-out form of the wolverine. " _What_ did you do?"

"I saved your life." The mouse shot back. "He could have torn you in half!"

"I-I h-he's the _Prince_ of this place!"

"We're _leaving_ this place." There was a hint of an order in the mouse's voice.

Fret seemed to shrink. He was truly pathetic. He would miss Clogg, but he had no choice but to leave before Bork woke up. "L-let's g-go quickly then."

The mouse rolled his eyes but gave no further commentary. "Lead the way."

* * *

Fret did not hesitate further. The tome was warm against his chest, the yo-yo cold, his heart pattered wildly, his eyes darted frantically and his stomach squirmed like a rat in a trap. Yet the only way forwards was South. There were no guards anywhere in the castle, just the skulls staring down at them both as they walked. They seemed to grin constantly, their hollow eyes blacker than ever, their teeth glinting in the white light of the moon. Then at long last they left the corridors of the castle and were greeted by the howling winds of winter. It roared and screamed like a child's nightmare. Fret shivered violently, but did not stop. His ears were flat against the back of his head and his paws were shaking. He lamented he had a book but not a darn coat!

It was only at the Bridge of Skulls that he hesitated. It did not look inviting, and he was half-certain the wood wouldn't take his weight. The wind rocked the whole thing.

"Scared?" There was no sting hidden in the voice. There was very little emotion either. The mouse's eyes were wide with fear, and his paws were shaking too.

Fret swallowed. "The er-only way out is through here." _And thanks to you I don't have a choice in leaving_. The ferret gently pushed open the red gate. He tested the wood briefly. It seemed safe... Clutching the rope as hard as he could he placed both feetpaws on the first wood. The bridge rocked lightly... but it would take him. "You ready?"

Momchillo was stolen from his thoughts and brought back to reality by the ferret's question. "Yeah... Yeah I'm ready." He shuffled forwards, not meeting the ferret's eyes.

Fret let the mouse take the lead once more. He gave one last glance at the frozen castle before turning his back to it. He tried not to imagine Clogg's face when Whimper was nowhere to be found the next morning.

Distantly, he could still hear cheering.


	28. Of Spring And Strawberries

"I can see the sunrise!" Matiya let out a whoop of wild joy. He hadn't climbed a tree in ages, and the familiar feeling of wood on his feetpaws was comforting on it's own. But the bright orange globe that slowly peered over the treetops like a shy, overripe fruit, and bathed the squirrel in it's warm, colourful glow was beyond familiar. It was comfort. The snows were melting slowly but surely, and he swore he'd spotted a new leaf shyly peaking out a pile of snow. That particular find, however, had cost him a blow to the head.

"Okay. You can get down tree-lover!"

"Five more minutes!" He called down, wanting to bathe slightly longer in the aura of light.

"You sound like a pup who doesn't want to get out of bed, now get down!" The stoat insisted from the foot of the tree.

Matiya sighed and began his descent, hopping daringly onto a lower branch. He landed in a crouch, and promptly swung himself over to the main trunk. Hugging to it tightly Matiya scampered down quickly. A few moments later he had returned to the relative darkness of the forest floor, illuminated only barely by small, lonely rays of light and the white snow. Threeclaw was almost indistinghuishable from his surroundings until he opened his eyes.

"So, which way will the sunrise be going?"

Matiya was more than used to the albino's speech pattern. He made up words from other languages that were also, no doubt, made up. French? Spanish? German? He wondered _why_ he did it more than anything. He stood out enough just based on his swordsbeastship, throw in the white coat and he was like a sore thumb. Perhaps it had made him feel different to the rest of the Honest Bunch. But... he'd been different enough surely? And why do it if only Matiya could hear him? The squirrel was sure that there was a deep, dark, secret reason behind it all, but had yet to confront his companion on it.

The winter had been spent in traveling and mostly silence. Matiya did not speak about Redwall to somebeast he knew would make fun of him for it. Threeclaw kept his deep, dark soul to himself. And yet a kind of mutual trust had grown between the two, insofar as the stoat was sure the squirrel was not interested in running away and Matiya felt relatively safe in his presence. He even got to hold the stolen rapier on occasion, wondering which pirate had lost so fine a weapon.

"Over there." Matiya pointed West.

Threeclaw was using one of his claws to map out the terrain. He'd been doing this all winter and yet they were no closer to Redwall than ever. Matiya was uncertain whether or not this was on purpose. He had theorized that Threeclaw was worried about the reception he'd recieve upon their arrival, but then the stoat had thrown a tantrum about giant, invisible, cursed abbeys and Matiya's thoughts had gone back to square one.

The stoat rolled to his feet, kicking away the half-drawn map. "Wait here." He said, going to map out the forest visually.

Matiya obeyed. It had occured to him of course that he ought to run away at some point and strike it out on his own... but then he'd be loosing the single best sword tutor of all time. Well... the only sword tutor that had actually bothered teaching him anything. He had eleven older brothers who currently lived down at Southswards and their younger days had been spent fighting and wrestling. Very good fun and he had grown strong from it... but it had been crude, often interrupted combat of the mostly biting and barking variety. His only decent opponent had been Grollo, who was quite strong but didn't like fighting, and Fret who had apparently never been a willing participant. He frowned deeply. He could have sworn the ferret must have enjoyed it at one point. He had had his wooden sword as well but whacking it around haphazardly was not in the best interests of the weilder or their companions. Threeclaw seemed to know all their was to know about twisting a blade.

Sometimes he wondered whether the others had already gotten back without him. Well... hopefully they wouldn't need to miss him for much longer. And hopefully they recognized him when he eventually got back. He doubted he looked the same. Then he also wondered, _if_ they had gotten back without him what had happened? Was Fret being punished in some way? Was Momchillo all right? Was Abbot Martin imparting grave wisdom to them all? What was for breakfast? Was his mother even eating? Did his brothers know he'd gone missing? What about the other vermin? Had they been killed? By other vermin? Or the abbey?

This was when he began thinking of ways past the stoat. If the abbey had killed all of Threeclaw's old friends, would the stoat not do the same in revenge? And if so Matiya was placed precariously close to him. Yet at the same time his chances of returning without the stoat were significantly smaller. He could _survive_ of course, at least until the snows melted completely. After that though he would be just as lost as always.

Threeclaw came back in a very good mood. Which bode well. It meant the day's walking could be done without the constant threat of getting run through, and occasionally the stoat would hum a little tune or ask for a story Matiya knew. Sometimes the stoat would even stay awake for the entire tale. Most of the time though, he fell asleep halfway through it.

"Ah mon compadre. We have une petitte problem. We now know where the sun sleeps. But not where that stupido big red-bricked wall is. So I'm going to let you decide. Where in the name of Hellgates do we go next?"

"Um." Matiya turned a full circle, unsure where to go. If his chosen direction did not lead to Redwall then he could not hold the stoat responsible. He swore Threeclaw was too clever for his own good. "Right?"

"My right or your right?"

"Your turn to choose."

"Alright. My right it is."

This was why all they had done over winter, was go in circles.

* * *

"As-pixy-ation. The art of stran-gull-king somebeast to death." Spring had made her presence known with only one significant change. There was still snow to be trudged on under-paw and the air carried an icy chill. Yet one large, red, sweet fruit made all the difference. A large patch of strawberries reminiscent of Redwall Abbey's orchard and the kindly hedgehog allowed them to go and pick at the fruit.

Grollo snorted loudly, his quills quivering in barely-surpressed laughter.

"It's pronounced ass-fy-ksy-ation." Hawthorn corrected. "And there's no 'k' in strangling."

Sharpfur scowled darkly at the two. "Not funny spike-pillow. Ye learned all the fancy vobaculary in yer fancy abbey. At least I know how to survive in the wild an' don't have to wait fer rescue."

Almost nonchalantly Grollo's reply flew back at him. "Your back healed yet?"

Sharpfur, who's back wounds still stood out from between newly-grown sharp fur, began snarling as he always did when faced with a retort he could not immediately parry.

"Read the next word." Hawthorn proposed. It would not do to listen to him snarling while they worked.

"I won't, so there." He slammed the dick-tie-narf-ey shut in his paws and, fuming, began kicking at the snow.

"You could help you know." The vole persisted.

"Yeah. You seemed really keen to join us when we were leaving."

It was Sharpfur's turn to snort. "Only coz I didn't want te get stuck with Old Spiky. She'd have me in a bath afore I could say 'die hedgepig!' Do ye have any idea how uncomfortable it is gettin' scrubbed clean by somebeast that ain't yer mammy? I hate it! Plus all vermin know that bathin' makes ye weak."

Grollo exploded with laughter. And even Hawthorn could not surprised her fit of giggles. Sharpfur stormed off, growling mutinously.

He hated it! Every second of the cursed, hellish condition he was forced to endure night and day! And all his companions ever did was laugh. It was sickening. He never thought he'd miss the big, fat, clumsy Grey Claw (mostly since he had doubted they'd ever be sepparated to begin with). He had had doubts about the rat to be sure, for nobeast was like the rat. He was not smart or cunning or cruel. He was stupid and kind and... So perfect it was sickening! Sick-Eyes had liked him, for he had never bothered her with petty wounds. Sickle-tail had loved him for hundreds of reasons. Perhaps his eagerness to help out was why she'd always given him such large portions of food. Hellgates even he, Sharpfur, King of Cruelty, had loved the rat in his own strange way.

The weasel shook his head, safely out of earshot of his companions. "Keep thinkin' like that ye dumb brain an' the next song'll be the rat, the rat and the weasel fair. Love, pshaw!" He spat determinedly into the snow. "Grey Claw was me brother. All there was to it. I had to put up with him coz he was me brother. If we weren't related I wouldn't even be thinkin' of him right now! Or missin' him. Gah! Dumb rat, why didn't ye just stick te me." He lashed out angrily at the snow at his feetpaws.

"An' it wouldn't be so bad if I still had the others. I wouldn't have to get covered in mucky soap! I wouldn't have to know the five times tables! I wouldn't have to know what ass-pixy-ation is! I wouldn't be forced to spend my time with stupid fat Woodlanders who only think about their mammies and daddies tryin' te rescue them." He scooped up a pawful of snow and began shaping it until it was perfectly round. "I wouldn't have to worry about how to sneak away from this dumb place! I wouldn't have to wear spectacles every time old Spiky Macmuffin's is in the room temperature scold me. Daft old bag of bones! So blind she thinks I'm blind!"

"I reckon you look better with them spectacles than without em'." Came Grollo's voice, making Sharpfur freeze. "What do you think Hawthorn?"

"Oh yes! Why, they make you look like an adorable, cute, fuzzy-wuzzy-" She narrowly ducked a hastily thrown snowball. " _Educated_ weasel! Far superior to the thug you'd have grown up to be."

Sharpfur hissed and hopped in rage. The diminutive weasel's fangs were bared. "Yer not funny abbeybeasts! Mark me words! One day ye'll be sorry!"

"Soooooorrrry." They said in unison, before almost dropping to the ground in violent laughter.

"Ye know... I can't believe yer ferret lasted more than ten seasons with ye lot. If it was me I'd have hurled meself off the top of the walls seasons ago!" Both were too busy laughing to hear him. Sharpfur stormed away once more, determinedly keeping his thoughts to himself this time.

He'd flay Hawthorn bit by bit and make the Hedgepig watch. Then he'd bathe her in the hottest, saltiest water he could get his paws on and listen to her screams. Then he'd do the same to Grollo.

Alter-native-lee, he could try and eavesdrop on one of their private conversations and make fun of it. Seeing as he did not have any salty water he would have to choose the alter-native. Sneaking backwards silently he began hearing their voices.

"I reckon he's off to cry now." Grollo said wisely. "Let's throw snowballs at him."

"That would be cruel." Hawthorn said, scoldingly.

"And calling him a cute, fuzzy-wuzzy gentlebeast, isn't?"

"That was a joke. Throwing snowballs at somebeast who's crying isn't."

Grollo shrugged. "He'd have done it to us."

"Well we ought to be better than him." The vole reached out towards a particularly ripe strawberry.

Sharpfur had heard enough and entered the scene once more. Being slightly taller than the vole he tugged down the desired fruit and handed it to her, the very essence of innocence painted on his muzzle. "Don't ye mind me now. I just had to cry me eyes out fer a bit. I'm alright thanks. Ye know just going about me business being the better beast. _Not_ dropping eaves on everybeast in sight." He cackled gleefully once more. "Whoops got a tear in me eye, better go and cry meself dry away from the pair of ye! Have a lovely day!" He grinned widely from ear to ear and slunk away once more.

He walked off merrily from then on. The success of catching them by surprise had more than made up for his humiliation earlier. Cheerily he began singing all the verses he knew from 'the hare and the weasel fair. The shanty had been his father's pride and joy and singing it (alone and to himself for no doubt everybeast else would laugh at his his skueaky voice) reminded him of days gone by when he and Grey had been younger and the only thing there was to worry about was getting wet.

It had been a simpler time and one Sharpfur sorely missed. What he would give in exchange for his mammy's cooking? Hellgates, he was calling her mammy again... Nothing so childish had left his lips since he was a babe. He stopped singing abruptly, knowing full well his father was far, far superior when it came to music and shanties.

"Dumb Woodlanders!" He hissed. "Yer all makin' me soft an' mushy an' gushy an' ew! It's not natural!" He kicked despairingly at the snow in front of him and was unpleasantly surprised when his footpaw met something hard.

"Yawch! Great stupid snow lump! Go an' melt!" He yelled, hopping on one footpaw while he massaged his throbbing one. Once the pain had subsided and he'd ran dry of fresh profanities he inspected the offending lump of snow, gingerly brushing away at it until he caught sight of something that was not white.

Tugging sharply at it he found a thick, but small black chest. Cackling in glee Sharpfur tore it open, having been raised on tales of lucky vermin who'd managed to find something extra-precious in their loot. He almost yelled in pain again as the contents made themselves clear to him. Books! It was filled with small books that were in turn filled with the messy scribbling of a child with a crayon. He almost threw it aside in disgust.

"Sharpfur? Sharpfur are you there? We're supposed to get back afore nightfall! Sharpfur!"

The weasel scrambled to hide his find, burrying the chest back under a mound of snow and leaving a single twig to stick upwards so that he would recognize the place. That was when he remembered he still had one book in his possession. "Hellgates!" He managed to seethe before the file was upon him. He turned round to greet her, the book hidden safely behind his back.

"I can look after meself." He snapped. Then shrugged. "Nowhere te run off te anyways. Back to the old hedgepig then, are we?"

Hawthorn stared at him suspiciously. "I heard you yelling."

"Course you did! Now come or we shan't be back afore nightfall!"

Hawthorn frowned deeply but turned anyways. "Alright then."

Sharpfur breathed a minute sigh of relief. He wasn't too sure why he's kept the books secret from her, but come to think of it these squiggles looked faintly familiar. Perhaps he'd be able to read them even.

* * *

 _Footnote: Been a while again. Was busy, apologies. I meant to update earlier (on this fic's one year anniversary) but was held back by unforeseeable circumstances. Gotta say the way these characters are spread out is another reason the updates take long. Presumably the story needs to take place at the same pace which is a nightmare for timing things. Doesn't help that by the time this is done it'll be my longest fic yet._

 _Another thing that kind of makes this fic hard to plan is which groups to follow. I want to follow the kids as much as possible but at the same time don't want to have to re-introduce a long-forgotten character at the end of the fic. So yes... Ahem. Tiny spot of bother. Though I have a semi-good solution which should come into play in the next chapter. I say semi-good because it will 'potentially' increase this fic's size greatly. Oh well._

 _This chapter would have been longer but I decided to keep the bit on otters for another time (after the chapter that comes next)._


	29. Missing Mice and Mustelids

**A/N: Just going to say that the next few chapters aren't necessarily in chronological order. Due to the distance between the characters it's... pretty hard to put down a timeline since I don't know how to count travel time for voles and ferrets and mice and boats made by rats and other mustelids. So yes it's not in order timeline wise, but it's in best reading order (I think). Anyways speaking of boats manned by rats...**

* * *

"As I cannot find Whimper," Darkhide began for the sixth time that morning. "I have brought somebeast who _greatly_ resembles him so that we can keep the support of the other Captains."

The one-eyed rat's gaze hardened as a tall, handsome and burly ferret, clad in silken pirate gear swaggered in. He wore a confident smirk and his paw lingered on the hilt of a cruel, curved blade. He could very well have passed for Mad-Eye Marik's son, or the son of some other warlord, but what Clogg saw was a ferret too tall, too burly, too confident and several seasons too old to be _his_ Whimper.

"Get _out_!" He snapped suddenly, rising to his feet, his paws curled into fists.

The ferret was also too dumb to be Whimper. His mouth opened into a small 'o' and it took a book to the face for him to realize that he was dismissed. Clogg next turned to the smaller, dark-furred rat.

"Why did ye bring that... that... idiot here!?"

"I thought... you said we only needed him to reel in the others!"

Clogg glared viciously at her. _"So?"_ He spat.

"So I brought somebeast that looks-"

"It looks _nothin'_ like him!" The rat bellowed and hurled a goblet at his first mate.

Darkhide ducked the silver goblet and watched Clogg furiously tear a bread he had no intention of eating, into a hundred pieces.

"Was there _no_ sign of him?" He asked for the eighth time since Bork had come complaining about Whimper disapperaing.

"None, as ye well know as I've already answered that." She said through gritted teeth.

Clogg glared at her. "Bork says he saw him. Yer saying Whimper just grew wings an' flew off!?"

"I never said that Captain."

"Well ye _implied_ it addlebrain! Find that ferret! I don't want another fake! I don't care about the Manywhiskers, I want my-my my- Whimper!" He hurled the breadcrumbs at his first mate, who was quick to leave.

* * *

"Hey, marten!" The familiar sound of a cracking whip made Deathglare turn on his heel. "Where's your pet mouse?"

"Pet mouse?" The marten tried to focus his good eye on the slavemaster's pair.

"Ye know what I'm talkin' about." The stoat was spinning the whip round his paw, as if threatening him.

"I do not." The whip cracked forwards and hit him square in the bad eye.

"Don't lie. Now where's the mouse?"

"I don't know any mice." Once more the whip cracked upwards. It hurt enough to make him wince.

"Plenty more where that came from. Fine then, I'll find yer pal myself! But if I do not, you can spend the night in here!" The slavemaster stormed off.

Deathglare's pouchy face fell into a frown. In hindsight he should have expected somebeast to notice, but he had been growing desperate. It had been an opportune moment for escape, and he did not regret his decision. The mouse, if he survived, would return. Perhaps not for him, but for the other beasts held here surely.

His greatest regret now was that, until the young mouse did return, he would be lonely...

* * *

 _I must be invincible..._

A whole winter of drinking and a near-drowning followed by the traumatic realization that one's dearly beloved nephew was now the vermin he had never wanted to grow up into would have been enough to put any creature six feet under. Yet here he was, trying to drown his sorrows in vermin ale, in a vermin castle. Jon Connington was more miserable than he had ever been in his entire life. He had failed Constance and Rowland and their children and he had failed Fret. Everybeast he loved, it seemed, was doomed to suffer from the drunk mouse, who was very much alive... Unfortunately.

"Connington... we've been through this before. Put the ale down ole chap! That's the ticket. You stop drinking and sober up and then we can search the castle again, wot."

They had been having different versions of the same conversation over the winter, and Connington highly doubted that it had gotten them anywhere. Nevertheless he still replied. "Just... let... me... drink..."

"I will not sit here and watch you die of kidney failure!"

"Then.. stand... up..." Connington swayed weakly as he stumbled towards an open cask. He dumped a borrowed drinking horn into it's contents and was about to lift it to his lips when the Captain smacked it out of his paw.

"I will box some sense into you, don'tcha know?" The hare was glaring at him. "You volunteered Connington. Think about your nephew!"

The mouse gave a dry, joyless chuckle. He had been thinking a lot about Fret. Fret who had always been foul-tempered and rude and... in hindsight had been a lot like him. Two helpless whelps taken in by caring beasts, or beast singular, in Fret's case. Both were bad-tempered to a degree and both were failures.

He had tried his best to help raise him. Difficult when he banished himself on some senseless quest ever-so-often. Still, he always came back with some gift or another... the last had been a Southwards toy. The invention of some clever squirrel. Of course... the ferret had rarely liked them. The last time he'd seen Fret he'd... he'd pushed him off the boat and left him to drown.

"There is nothing funny about your condition, wot! You- you're going to die! And- and your nephew is probably locked in some cage because you're too cowardly t-to go looking for him!"

Connington shook his head, laughing more and more. "Don't... talk... You don't... hehehehe... understand."

"I will - _make me_ understand you infernal creature!"

Connington once more shook his head, a silly, childish grin on his face. "I can't." He sounded pained beyond measure. If he told anybeast then there was the possibility that somehow or other the news would get to Constance... and he would go to his grave before he let her know he'd failed her.

The hare's face went as red as a tomato, and One-Eye stormed off, fuming.

 _He'll be back... in an hour, or two, after he's done searching the castle for somebeast that's not there. Oh well... back to drinking..._

* * *

"Marten!" The slavemaster's voice cracked like a whip.

Deathglare turned to the stoat. "Yes?"

"Where's the mouse?" Momentarily, the pine marten was surprised by the ferocity in his voice. But considering all the stoat had done over the winter was whip the mouse into submission, or try to, it came as only a small surprise that he would notice his absence.

"I know no mi-" The whip shot upwards and caught his bad eye again.

"Where are ye hidin' him?" The slavemaster demanded, spit flying out his mouth and spraying across the pine marten's face.

Deathglare wiped his face free of saliva. "Hiding who?"

The stoat punched him hard across the face. Deathglare gave no reply, beyond rubbing his nose free of stinging pain. "Fine then... mouse escaped, has he?" The slavemaster gave a dry, humorless chuckle. "Pity ye couldn't get out, too, eh? Yer going to suffer for it!"

"At the moment, I'm enjoying myself greatly." The taunt earned him a few more fists to the face. Deathglare felt a paw tighten round his throat.

"Laugh while ye still can!" Another blow to the face made Deathglare's vision black out temporarily. His head spun with pain.

The next thing he knew was that his paw was chained to the wall of the mine. Dimly he heard the slavemaster speaking.

"Whichever beast gets here first, on the morrow, gets to chew _his_ frozen corpse!" The stoat pointed a vicious claw at him. "An' if there's even a bit of flesh left on his bones, ye can join him!"

Most woodlanders and a few vermin shuddered. But Deathglare could see the guilty, greedy gleam in the eyes of an otter and several foxes licking their lips. His stomach seemed to turn to lead and his ears miserably behind him.

The slavemaster smiled cruelly at the pine marten. "Sleep well."

* * *

Fleetfoot's feetpaws made barely a sound against the cold, hard floor of the castle. It was a desolate place, wherever it is they were. Somewhere far to the North. He stopped and swivelled his ears, checking for guards.

There had been many close calls over the winter, yet somehow or other he and Connington had managed to avoid detection. Well... A few guards probably thought the cellar was haunted by the ghosts of an old married couple but deception was key when it came to staying alive right, bang splat in vermin territory.

He darted past the horribly familiar halls, decorated with the skulls and bones of long-dead beasts. Luckily none of them looked new, or like they belonged to a child. Warrior instinct prevented him from heaving at the sight of a badger's bones. Badgers were rare creatures, noble and wise and kind. To see one's corpse reduced to a wall decoration was eerie in ways he could not quite describe, even with his large and impressive vocabulary.

He did not even know why he continued to look. The children were not there. He had watched the slaves being taken out to work in the kitchens, or in the mines, or in construction. He had been surprised by the fact that here vermin enslaved each other, but the Northern territories were harsher, he supposed. Amongst the woodland species there were no children, not anybeast from Redwall.

There was a young ferret that seemed to match the description he'd been given. Only he was not a slave and the son of a mighty warlord. Both ruled out the missing nephew.

Once or twice he thought he saw a mouse, but it always stood next to a pine marten. One-eyed as he was he had little doubt that it was really a rat.

There were no familiar-looking squirrels, albino voles, hedgehogs, shrews or his own son who he had no doubt he would have recognized by now.

He took a right down a deserted corridor and stomped down a flight of stairs he had already checked.

* * *

"Captain's gone soft." Darkhide finally said. She sat with Scringewhiskers, the ferret and Fleaback, the rat. Both were important officers like her, under Clogg's command. And both had noticed that something was wrong with the way he had been behaving. Yes, he was still a cold-blooded killer, yes he was still their Captain, and yes talking like this within earshot of him would earn at best derisive laughter and some humiliation and at worst a slow and painful death. But they had all noticed. And it was especially clear now when Clogg was refusing full stop to listen to reason and let the damn kit go! Nobeast had gotten _that_ good a look at him, they'd all been drunk at the feast! Yet, no matter how many candidates were put before him, all he did was demand that they find Whimper.

"Took him long enough. But... I expected no less, didn't I?" Fleaback had been forecasting doom and gloom since the kit had first been found. He said it was ill luck to take in an unwanted child. Clogg had reminded him that at one point _he_ had been an unwanted child and that had been the end of the discussion.

Scringewhiskers... who had no whiskers... gave a derisive snort. "So what if he liked the kit? Ferrets are likeable and ye both know it. He'll move on and we'll be better for it."

Darkhide chuckled. "Do ye really think he'll move on?" Then she snapped back into serious-mode. "I've never seen him like this before, not even with Marik. He's worried sick and it worries _me_! We are surrounded by enemies and instead of showin' off and scarin' them away he's locked up fretting about some dumb pup. We're in the middle of a darn invasion!"

Scringewhiskers rolled his eyes. "Now ye're going to start spouting yer dumb theory again. 'He ain't Marik's son an' looks nothin' like him', so what? Captain says the boy takes after his mother an' that's enough fer me an' the other Captains. So what if he ain't Marik's son? It's not like bein' somebeast's son makes ye a greatbeast. Like I said, Whimper'll turn up, an' if he doesn't Captain ain't stupid and'll use a replacement. Hellgates, I might be part warlord!"

This earned him a hearty chuckle from Fleaback, who promptly smacked him on the back. Darkhide merely glared and muttered incoherently under her breath.

Unbeknownst to them, Clogg had heard every word. At first, he had been sorely tempted to go in, slaughter them all, and leave. But thought better of it. Three pairs of paws were hard to replace on short notice. Besides, a far better opportunity presented itself in the form of the Slavemaster. The stoat was whistling through the halls, spinning his whip idly round in one paw, looking far too cheerful than any slavemaster had a right to be. He spotted the rat and saluted smartly.

"Best of luck with yer raidin' Captain."

Clogg grinned. "I won't be needing luck. Never use it anyways." He said with a casual shrug. "I could use a first mate though... murdered the last one fer a bet, need a replacement. Hey, here's an idea... ye look like a strong, able-bodied beast with a good mind for leadership. How'd ye like to be first mate?"

The stoat looked hesitant. "Er... well... the slaves..." Then Clogg was throwing his paw round his shoulder, a wide, winning grin plastered to his one-eyed face.

"Ah, to Hellgates with the slaves! Ye deserve some glory mate! Follow me an' ye'll get more gold and silver than ever before! C'mon, what do ye say? Clogg and Browneye, Scum of the World!"

The slavemaster couldn't suppress a small smile. "H-how did... How'd ye know I was called Browneye?"

 _Coz yer eyes are brown and yer parents unoriginal._ "Truth be told... I've had my eye on ye for a while."

Now Browneye grinned completely. "Ah well... Course I'll come! Wouldn't want to let down a mate, eh?"

"Course not!" Now Clogg burst through the doors, guiding the slavemaster in by the shoulders. Scringewhiskers coughed, Fleaback's eyes widened and Darkhide's paw went to where she kept her knives. "Oh, hello my buckos! Just thought ye ought to meet my new first mate! Say hi Browneye!"

The stoat raised a paw nervously. "Hullo."

Darkhide's eyes narrowed in dislike. "First mate? Ye already have... a first mate."

"Killed her for a bet. Ah well, she thought I was goin' soft! Could ye believe that!" He gave a hearty laugh, which was joined by the nervous chuckles of Browneye, Scringewhiskers and Fleaback. "Anywho, sorry for the delay, we start on the morrow for the Southern Lands. Now come Browneye, we gotta tell Longclaw about yer new appointment. An' find a fittin' replacement for ye here as Slavemaster. Bye me buckoes!"

* * *

It was an excellent punishment for helping somebeast escape. Tie them in a mine and leave them to freeze to death overnight. If they were not dead by morning then they would be eaten alive by a bunch of rabid slaves. It would have been quite a desperate situation, if he couldn't pick a lock.

Now Deathglare slunk along the silent corridors of the vast, empty castle, searching for a place to hide until the mouse and his rescue returned. His chances of surviving that long were extremely slim. Silvertongue and Sickletail worked in the kitchens... it would be possible for them to sneak him some food surely. Sleep would be rough, and life would be difficult, but when was it not so?

Though he already had a very good idea of where to hide. The cellars of course! Wines and fizzes and ales and rums, all had to be stored within a cool, dry place. And all had to be aged... if he could just find the ones _still aging_ amongst this pile of barrels and kegs.

A faint noise made him freeze in place. It was... Singing.

"I was a... Hic... Failure... Hic... Since I was... Hic... Born... No... Thing... Hic... Rhymes... With... Fail... Hic... Ure... Except... Hic... Mehihihihihihihihihihihi!"

It was a drunkard mouse, Deathglare realized, upon reaching the sound. The mouse must have been doing this for some time, for he was so intent on his ale that he could not see the pine marten standing before him.

"There was a... Hic... Mouse... From... Not... Hic..." The mouse stumbled forwards, and swayed heavily. The drinking horn fell from his grasp and clattered to the floor. The mouse bent over to pick it up, swayed like a tree in the monsoon, and finally collapsed upon the floor.

Deathglare shook his head in disbelief. He marched forwards and flipped the mouse onto his back. There was no risk in saving somebeast that had clearly already escaped captivity. Besides... In his own strange way he was becoming fond of mice. His footpaw came down heavily on the rodent's stomach.

The mouse heaved and released a large amount of ale. His fur was already filthy and stunk of half-fermented drinks. Now he had a fresh pool of commit to snore in.

Deathglare pulled away in disgust, wrinkling his nose as he did so. "And you woodlanders call us scum..."

"We do... For entirely different reasons of course." The new voice made him freeze. They were not alone...

Before Deathglare could whirl around he felt his feetpaws leave the ground. A rope was holding him up by the neck. The pine marten tried desperately to free himself. His claws dug into the rope, his legs kicked helplessly under him and his throat was crushed under the force of the rope.

"Sorry ole chap, but we can't have you ratting us out, wot, wot."

 _Damn... hare..._

The only noise he could make was a desperate wheezing. His lungs were burning. The air fading. Black spots covered his vision. Just when it seemed like the world was about to go black, the rope snapped.

* * *

 _Footnote: The Art of the Repeating Cliffhanger. The nature of this story is such that whenever I resolve one, I create at least two more. So now you no longer have to worry about Captain Fleetfoot's or Connington's fates since we left them near the end of Book I. Now you just have to worry about Deathglare._

 _Speaking of which, Connington's not dead. Surprise!_

 _Sorry for fooling you, that wasn't really the intention. You see, he was never dead but there never was a place to show that. It felt kinda silly to dump him off the boat and then be like 'he's not dead' . But there never really was a time to introduce him after that either. I didn't want to leave y'all thinking he was dead but it would also feel kinda random to be like 'yeah Fret didn't_ really _kill his Nuncle'. Which it probably feels like now. But I kinda need him now and if I hadn't introduced him now I'd have to introduce him later by which time you may have forgotten his existence... And it would rob us of a fun little side-plot._

 _Though I don't think I ever said he was dead? It's really just Fret who said/thought that._

 _Then again if it surprised YOU then just think about poor Fret's reaction... Coming in Book III... Which is probably not gonna come for a while since Book II is quite long. So if you're expecting a big reunion... Not coming super-soon._

 _But there should be a massive pay-off to all this waiting._


	30. Black, White and Brown-ish Yellow

"Can we have a break?" Panted Fret at last. They had been walking for what felt like a day and a night. He was not too sure exactly, the world was still dark around him, but it was rarely sunny in the Northlands, and especially not for long periods of time.

The mouse, who walked several feet ahead of the ferret, spun round, a frown on his face, his paws crossed. Fret took this to mean 'yes' and promptly collapsed at his feetpaws.

"Just give me five minutes." He said, his tongue hanging out the side of his mouth.

"Not much physical work?" Asked Momchillo, stiffly.

"I er- didn't have anything ter- _to_ eat." He replied evasively, hastily dropping the accent.

"Me neither." The mouse admitted with a sigh.

Despite the cold, Fret did not shiver. The snow even felt _warm_ around him. He could just close his eyes and slee-

"Five minutes over." Momchillo reminded sternly in what felt like five seconds.

Grumbling grumpily Fret got to his feet without argument. He envied Momchillo. Although the mouse looked the same as ever... there was something different. He looked stronger, and the fur on his back was uneven in length, probably due to a whip. Fret found himself pitying him. Pity clashed viciously with envy for a while, before exhaustion returned.

He wanted to sleep. To close his eyes and wake up in Constance's arms... Though Constance would probably never want to hold him again. Momchillo's mother would be overjoyed to see her precious darling. Fret doubted anyone really missed _him_. Envy was once more leading the way.

Momchillo was stronger than him. Smaller, yes, but stronger. He was tougher as well, not shivering or panting or wallowing in self-pity. Were _all_ mice like that? Maybe not Abbot Martin, but-

Fret bumped into his smaller companion, who had stopped suddenly, a wild look of happiness in his eyes. Finally, they had reached the bottom of the mountain.

"Let's camp here!"

Fret did not need telling twice and collapsed into the soft snow. It was so soft... almost like a blanket.

Momchillo however, being more aware of their surroundings did not miss the large pile of wood! "Alright Fret, I reckon we should make a fire."

Fret groaned. "But I'm tired."

"I am too. But I need your help." The mouse explained with as much patience as he could muster. He dumped a small pile of wood next to the ferret. "We can sleep after." Picking up two sticks, the mouse held them at eye level. "So, how do you make a fire?"

Fret sat up grumpily. "How am I supposed to know? They never taught us at Redwall."

Momchillo chewed his lips. "I think we're supposed to rub these two together." He paused, then suddenly began rubbing the two together as fast as he could. He looked like... a really bad violin player and Fret could not resist giving a derisive snort.

"You think?"

Momchillo scowled. "You give it a try then, if you're so smart!"

Momentarily dumbstruck Fret did not know what to do with the branches in his paws. Then it hit him! Why hadn't he thought of it earlier? "You have to blow on the wood to make fire." He said this with as smug a smirk as he could muster. Crossing the twigs over the pile he sucked in the air. Then he huffed and he puffed and he blew with all the force in his lungs.

Momchillo looked momentarily incredulous. Well of course he would... _Surprised I'm not an idiot are you?_

Then the mouse started laughing, a sound Fret was all too familiar with. The ferret continued to hurl the air at the wood, until his lungs were completely empty. He panted, his face red. Momchillo's laughter increased ten-fold. Even when his air supply had been replenished, his face remained pink.

"I don't think that's how it's done." He held his paws out for the sticks, and Fret gave them, as viciously as he could. He was sick of being the laughing stock.

Momchillo soon found that each subsequent attempt to light a spark was met with both failure and was punctuated by a loud 'ha-ha' from his companion. At long last the mouse had had enough.

"Ha-ha-OW!" Fret rubbed his wounded noise, where he'd received a sharp smack from the stick.

"Haha." Momchillo snapped, ducking back to work with the fire. Shoving a branch into a crack on a small log, he then proceeded to rub viciously when 'thump' a snowball caught him clear in the face. The mouse shot to his feet, glaring angrily at his companion.

"Ha-ha." The calm, casual taunt coming out the sour face of his 'friend' made Momchillo snap.

"Do you want a fire, or not?"

Fret shrugged. "You can't make one anyways."

"And you can?" Momchillo challenged. "At least I _tried!_ "

"I tried too!" Fret snapped back. "Then you started laughing!"

"Try again then." He pointed at a patch of empty snow several feet away. "Over _there!_ "

"I will!" Fret shot back. He stood up and snatched a pile of wood for himself. "Over here!"

"Good!"

The pair turned away from each other, each working furiously on building their own flame. Each desperate to give the other a smug grin. Each desperate to get the final 'ha-ha'.

Yet not a single spark would come. No matter how they twisted, or rubbed, or blew at the wood, no fire would greet them. Fret was the first to give up. Why had Momchillo not just let him sleep to begin with? He could have been mid-dream by now! Hot and angry, he curled in on himself as far as he could, becoming a little ball of black and white fur. Momchillo gave up soon after. Punching the snow into a semi-comfortable position, he too curled up to sleep.

* * *

It was the best rest Fret had had since leaving the abbey. And although he knew it was a dream, the dream was wonderful. Or at least... It ended up that way.

He was shivering slightly as he stomped up the path to Redwall Abbey. With every step he took the gates drew closer and closer, the massive walls seemed to grow and grow, until they were tall enough to cover the clouds.

He was not sure what he felt. It was not fear, though he was scared. It was not shame, although ashamed he felt. Nor was he joyful despite the overwhelming urge to give his dumbest, goofiest grin.

The smell of something warm and tasty wafted towards him, and seemed to hook him by the nose. His empty stomach dragged him forwards even if he could no longer feel his feetpaws. If he wasn't so worried he'd have drooled.

At last he reached the gates. Next to the abbey he was nothing, merely an ant. No, not even an ant... but what was smaller than an ant?

He raised a shaking paw to knock on the door, but before he could even stop his quivering, the gates swung open. A thousand sounds greeted him, the joyful and loud chatter of every Redwall feast. The clatter of knives and forks and spoons on plates. The wonderful scent of candied chestnuts and nutbread and greensap milk and the gallons of soup and- this time he did drool. The pull on his nose was stronger than ever, but Fret refused to obey.

He hated the feasts. No sooner would he walk in than the staring would begin. And Bella and Abbot Martin and everybeast else would scold him for being late and not knocking on the gate.

But there was an alternative. Constance and he lived in the gatehouse... If he could just sneak in without anybeast noticing... It would be like he had never left. Or at least he wouldn't have to deal with anything until when everybeast woke up.

His hopes were dashed almost immediately when he saw Constance coming towards him. He did not know what to do or what to say or- "Sorry." He snapped. He buried his face in his paws. No, he had to do this right. He swallowed. "I'm sorry." He was serious, he was sorry. This was probably more remoresful than he'd ever been. His eyes were swimming with tears. "F-for leaving, f-for not coming back, f-for being a-" He swallowed again. Being a what? A vermin? A ferret? A sorry excuse for a son? Why was his voice nasally?

But then she hugged him. "You have nothing to be sorry for."

Fret was not a huggy person. He tolerated such behavior from Constance, hated it from Connington and loathed it from everybeast else. Yet, he could not stop himself hugging her back. It was a soppy, softy, mushy-gushy thing to do that made him squirm uncomfortably- but he did it anyways. He opened his mouth to say something, but was interrupted when he felt Constance shaking him slightly.

"Fret." This was like when he'd been younger and smaller, and Constance had effortlessly rocked him to sleep, despite his every attempt to escape her grip. Because he was not a dibbun anymore and he did not need to be mothered into bed! The memory made him hug tighter. He did not want to let her go- _would not_ let her go.

"Fret!" There was a note of insistence in her voice- perhaps she too was not a huggy person after all... though he found that unlikely after more than ten seasons of her molly-coddling.

"FRET!" Momchillo was shouting in his ear.

The ferret blinked back into the cold reality. He was no longer holding his beloved mother, but was wrapped up with the mouse he loathed.

"What?" He demanded. He noticed that the mouse had a rather firm grip on his nose. No wonder his voice had sounded so strange.

"You drooled on me." The mouse glowered angrily. " _And_ you're hugging me. And you were murmuring in your sleep. And why am I holding your nose?"

The details of their dreams came back to them, followed by the full details of their current position. Momchillo did indeed have a patch of fresh saliva dripping off the top of his head. The mouse _was_ tugging Fret by the nose. Their tails were wrapped round each other's and covered in a thick layer of ice and snow.

"I thought-" Began Momchillo, releasing Fret's nose.

"You were-" Fret swallowed, pulling his arms away from the mouse's form.

"MY MOTHER!"

"MY MO- Con-stance!" Constance was not his mother. Seasons of calling her 'momma' could not hide the fact that he was a ferret and she was a mouse. Mice did not give birth to ferrets. Mice couldn't give birth to ferrets. Mice couldn't... Love... Ferrets... Yet the hug had felt so real.

Both pulled away from each other. There was a few minutes of desperate, hasty grooming on both their parts. How long had they been like that? _Why_ had they been like that?

It was a short while before either of them noticed the small, dying fire that lay before them. Fret's face fell... evidently Momchillo was better at making a fire than he was. He gazed at his own pile, covered not in smoke, but in a fresh layer of snow and his face fell even further. "So." He swallowed. "You made a fire." Envy was once more swimming inside him. The stupid, perfect mouse _always_ did everything right! Even when he laughed at him, or picked on him... Or rather, especially so.

To his surprise, Momchillo looked surprised. "I thought... you did." The mouse turned his gaze towards his own, abandoned pile of wood. They noticed the pawprints in the snow, coming from one empty pile of wood to where they say now. "Did we move closer to each other... in our sleep?"

Wordlessly they both returned to desperately grooming themselves. Fret did not know what to say. He felt somehow... humiliated. It wasn't Momchillo's fault but at the same time this was entirely Momchillo's fault! If not for the mouse he'd be going... raiding... with Clogg... who helped murder his nuncle... and he'd have never seen Constance again. Something tugged at his tail.

Now he felt guilty! He'd have willingly abandoned Constance and Connington for a no-good, villainous pirate who... loved him like a son. All Clogg had ever shown him was affection. The tugging was stronger now.

Yet no matter how much Clogg had loved him, Clogg was vermin. Fret did not belong in his world. Then again he did not belong in Redwall Abbey. Hellgates, he didn't even belong amongst other _ferrets!_ He had to stop saying 'Hellgates', that was what Whimper said. Fret never said Hellgates, Fret never said Hellgates, Fret never said- The tugging turned to pulling and Fret's face met the snow.

" _Stop_ pulling my tail!" He snapped, turning to glare at the mouse. Both he and Momchillo spotted the problem immediately. Both yelled in one voice. Their tails, wrapped round each other, was frozen solid under a thick layer of ice.

Momchillo pulled sharply, trying to extricate his tail from the tangle.

"Ow! _Ow!_ _OW!_ " The ferret's eyes were filled with tears. "You're pulling my fur off." He whined.

"Sorry." The rodent sounded not at all apologetic. "But you're right. We shouldn't panic, we should use our heads. The fire will melt this off." The mouse turned back to the flames expectantly.

A sudden, strong gust of wind promptly dumped a small pile of snow onto it. Yelling in fruitless panic Momchillo wiped the snow away and blew desperately at the darkened embers. Fret's face darkened. So fire _was_ made by blowing. Stupid mouse...

Yet no fire would come of the ashes and embers, now charred black. At last Momchillo gave up with a low moan. "What are we going to do?"

Fret, though he disliked the newfound proximity he and the mouse had to share, did not see much of a problem. "We could keep going. Redwall's just... south of here. Just across Blue Lake and... everything else..." His heart sank a little. They were ages away from Redwall. Ages he would have to spend alone... with Momchillo.

"You're forgetting we're stuck together." The mouse spoke through gritted teeth.

"So?"

"So! We won't go three feet without tripping over our tails!"

Fret snorted. "Not even _you're_ that clumsy."

Momchillo gave him a wide fake smile and pointed ahead. "You lead the way then."

"With pleasure." He did not last three steps, he did not even last one before he tripped over a stray piece of wood buried under snow.

"Told you so."

Gritting his teeth, the ferret tugged hard on his own tail, so that Momchillo lost his footing and landed rump-first on the snow.

"Hahahahahahaha!" He made his laughter as cruel as possible. The mouse glowered at him.

"We'll _melt_ the ice off, with the embers." He caught hold of Fret's tail and successfully began dragging the ferret towards the remains of the fire. The ferret in question was momentarily stunned by the mouse's display of strength... before he remembered that he didn't weigh that much to begin with. Digging his claws as deeply into the snow as possible, he tugged against the mouse's pull. For a short while they struggled before Momchillo let go.

"Do you want to be free or not?"

"Stop pulling! It hurts! And you'll burn my tail-fur."

"No I won't! We're just melting off the ice!"

"Easy for you to say. You don't have any fur to burn."

Momchillo seethed and for a second it looked like he was about to jump up and down in rage. "Gah you... coward!"

"Better a coward than a bully!" Fret snapped back immediately. "Worm-tail!"

"Mask-face!" The mouse retorted, successfully managing to drag Fret through the snow despite the ferret's efforts to thwart him.

This was a battle Fret knew he could not win. Momchillo, despite his size, was stronger than him. He was smarter and stronger and... alone. Grollo was not here to hold him back. Matiya was not here to drag him off the mouse. Bella was not here to send him to dish duty. It was just him and Momchillo.

"Dibbun! Grow up why don't you?"

The mouse stopped suddenly and fell to his knees, releasing a dry sob. For a second Fret was frightened he'd overdone it... until he heard what the mouse was saying.

"I'm sorry! I'm sorry! I'm sorry!" Fret went red and began stammering, though even _he_ wasn't too sure what he was trying to say. Probably an excuse or denial that he'd _ever_ said that. Momchillo walked forwards and patted him jovially on the top of his head. "Leave it to the professionals." Fret glared, but he was still pink and stammering, so the effect was not quite what he wanted it to be. Momchillo spotted something further ahead in the snow and made is way over to it, whilst Fret continued to stutter half-formed insults.

He could not let Momchillo get the better of him. Not here, not again, not like always! Suddenly he saw Momchillo stoop to pick up a book. His book! He must have dropped it at some point and if Momchillo saw what was inside it he would... he would... he... he had to do _something!_

The book was not much older than the mouse himself. How it had gotten there was beyond him, yet if a pile of firewood could be found, apparently waiting for them, who knew what the book was for? Perhaps it had been placed there for him to find it... Excitement made his paws shake, and drove him to open the tome.

Of course, Fret had to ruin it. With nothing short of a giant snowball. While the mouse was blinded, he felt the book wrenched free of his grasp. The ferret now stood before him, a wide, nervous grin on his muzzle. His paws hidden behind his back.

Momchillo was thoroughly tempted to hit him. It was only through immeasurable self-control that he did not. "Give it back!"

"Give w-what back?" Fret said with a gulp.

"The book! The one I _just_ found before you stole it."

"I don't have a book." The ferret lied.

Momchillo's face darkened. "What do you have then?"

"Nothing." Once more Fret swallowed. He flinched at the new intensity of Momchillo's glare.

The mouse went on tip-paw to try and peer round the ferret's long, thin form. But Fret was ready for this and turned along with him, so that no matter which way the mouse looked he was faced with a nervous smile.

At last the mouse had had enough and jabbed him roughly in the belly. The ferret doubled over suddenly, the book forgotten. Momchillo dove onto his back, trying to reach out for the tome. But the ferret could not take his weight and came crashing down into the snow. Momchillo wrenched the book from his grasp and sat down resolutely on top of him, to prevent him getting interrupted this time. It was not enough prevention. Fret pulled hard on his own tail, so that the mouse lost his balance and fell over. The book slipped from his grip and landed on the snow a few feet away. Both dove for it, missed, and became entangled in one another's writhing limbs.

Fret bit down hard on the fur near his mouth- only to be painfully made aware he was biting his own tail. Momchillo had somehow extricated himself and was stooping over to pick up the book. Fret shot to his feet in panic, as Momchillo was on the cusp of opening the book. His claws slammed into both sides of the tome and squeezed it shut. They locked eyes, Momchillo was the picture of annoyance, Fret on the verge of a nervous breakdown.

"Let go!"

"No!"

"What's it to you!" The mouse seethed.

"None of your business!"

"Oh so it's your business?! I found it!"

"And I stole it!" The words were out his mouth before Fret even knew what he was saying. He regretted them immediately.

The mouse stopped pulling abruptly, so that the ferret fell hard on his rump.

"Really? Your book?" The mouse sounded skeptical. Then realization hit him. "Your book? Y-you-" The mouse clutched his head in his paws. His whole body was quivering in rage. "You stole the book? When?" Yet no sooner had he asked than he knew the answer. "When you went to get the key?"

Fret shrunk under the accusation. He opened his mouth to say something, a lie, an excuse, anything- but no words would come. The shrinking only confirmed the mouse's theory.

"The key which we didn't need! And which didn't exist! The one you ran off to get without telling me. You didn't have a book crying in the corner with you, did you?"

Fret flinched again. "I-I-I-"

"What are you hiding?" He snapped, cutting through the stammering.

"None of your business." Fret snapped back, then he shrunk again. "It's- no, it's personal. I- sorry."

Momchillo facepalmed. "A stolen book is personal? You are such a bad liar. Next time you apologize, mean it. Maybe you can even convince me." Now he was getting angry again.

"I d-didn-"

"Save it! I don't care Fret! I really, really don't care! We left Redwall to save your ungrateful tail and what happened? You tried to kill me, we ended up enslaved! Matiya's probably dead and-" The mouse took a deep shuddering breath. "And we'd have gotten back if he hadn't gone back to get you!" The mouse grimaced. His eyes were swimming with tears, but his face was still contorted in anger.

"I'm sorry." Fret squeaked. Momchillo grabbed him by his front and glared down at him. The two were nose to nose and shaking.

"Tell that to him. He was the only one stupid enough to believe you anyways."

"Thi- not, I didn't want- not my faul-" The ferret wasn't even thinking now. It _was_ his fault. Matiya, dead. His Nuncle, dead...

Momchillo shoved him into the snow, hard. "Say it all you want Fret, this is entirely your fault! We are _leagues_ away from Redwall!"

Fret was rocking up and down in the snow, his mouth making noiseless protestations of innocence.

"Go on, cry. That's all you do Fret! You cry and you snap! Snap and cry and complain! And whine and whimper and bawl and-" He took another deep breath. He was stuck to Fret, he could not loose Fret, Fret was all he had left. But he was just so angry! It didn't help that he'd dreamed of Redwall. A home and mother he'd left behind for... "Bad-tempered little-"

"Go on say it! Just _say it!_ I'm vermin!" Fret rose to his feetpaws. The words did not want to leave him but he forced them out anyways. "I'm either sad or angry because if I'm not angry I'm sad and I'd rather be angry than sad because-" He could barely see through the tears. He was not making any sense to himself anyways. "No matter who when, where, why-" He wiped his nose on his wrist-fur. "Or how! Everything is always my fault! I'm always guilty because I'm vermin and I'll always be guilty because I'll always _be_ vermin!"

He did not want to continue, but could no longer surpress feelings he'd kept shut for ten seasons. After all, he'd been forced to re-live them a few hours before. "It's alright for you, because you're a mouse! When we- If we ever get back to Redwall you'll be welcomed home! I'm not welcome anywhere! And for what? Because of my temper? My 'bad-temper'? Or because I'm not an abbeybeast? Because I-I-I chose to be bad? Because I l-lie and s-snap and-"

He could go no further. His mind was boiling, his claws were out, his fangs bared, his eyes narrowed into his strongest glare. He was furious. With Connington for dying. With Constance, for ever picking him up in the first place, with Matiya for believing in him, with Momchillo and Grollo and the other kids for everything. With Abbot Martin for all his lessons. The Badgermum, for never being fair. With Clogg, for caring about him. With the dumb book and the dumb portraits for not knowing who he was and where he'd come from. With the yo-yo for...

And at the end of the day, it was all his fault. He could, and would, point and complain and put the blame anywhere but at his feetpaws... but at the end of the day... his existence was the sole cause of all his troubles. His dumb black and white fur, the dumb mask on the top of his snout and around his eyes, his dumb teeth and claws for being sharp! His dumb brain for not knowing where he belonged! Himself for being a lying, nuncle-murdering, rude, snapping, cowardly, blame-shifting ferret!

Fret turned his back resolutely away from the mouse.

Momchillo, though still angry, had been taken aback by the outburst. He was at a loss for words.

The pair succumbed into silence after that.

* * *

 _Footnote: Originally this and the last chapter were joined together, but this ended up getting heavier and heavier so... I decided that this chapter had enough emotional baggage to stand on it's own.  
_

 _Gotta say that Momchillo and Fret's journey home was something I really looked forwards to writing. No_ _w the drama here may seem like it went from nought to sixty really fast but... these two characters are literally the worst combination that could be made of the cast of characters I had- so obviously I had to use it. I toyed with the idea of swapping Momchillo and Matiya's places in this story- but that would have made things a bit too easy-going._

 _You should probably expect more chapters like this. Though this is also the most drama you'll get for a while._

 _Momchillo and Fret's journey home was also the original 'vision' of the fic. Only it was more vague back then (and Fret wasn't even a ferret or called Fret), but at the same time I'm glad I could finally un-veil all this._

 _Enjoy!_


	31. Alone But Not Friendless

Sharpfur waited until he was quite sure his companions were asleep. Grollo was snoring softly to his side and Hawthorn was as dead to the world as... Well... A deadbeast. Armed with a candle, the mysterious book and a dick-sigh-on-airy he was determined to discover what lay within the pages of his discovery.

 _''Dear Diarry,'_

The writing was big and messier than his. Each word took half a page and had to be carefully taken apart and deciphered. For a moment he wondered what poor vermin had been forced to write it down. Then he remembered that he was probably the first poor vermin who'd been forced to learn the squiggles.

The weasel's face was the very image of concentration. His brow furrowed, forehead creased, eyes fixed rigidly at the scribble in front of him. Sharpfur paused to flick through the en-sick-o-ped-ya of words to find out the meaning of 'diarry'. No 'diarry' to be found... There was another word with two 'r's though...

 _'Diarrhea are loose, watery stools-'_

The weasel slammed the book shut viciously. "Ew, ew, ew, ew! That is dis-gusting! Even for me!" He regretted the outburst when he heard Grollo roll in his sleep and Hawthorn muttering at him to 'go to sleep'. He paused to make sure both his companions were fast asleep once more. He would proceed more cautiously from now on. Cracking the book open with the tips of his claws, Sharpfur went to the next line.

 _''Today I saw a taddy-pole in the lake. It was big and black and slimy."_

The weasel sniffed at the parchment, before turning to the next page. He was no longer entirely sure a child had written this...

 _"I can't wait forit to grow into a beautiful froggy. He will have very long legs and be very kind. We will hold hands and play and dance and sing and daddy says he can join my tea-party."_

Sharpfur yawned widely. Sixteen pages in and he had yet to discover anything of interest. And it was making him sleepy too, that was not good.

 _"Spike says that froggies are meanies. He says they're worse than vermin. But I don't think vermin are so bad."_

Sharpfur snickered. Silly woodlanders everywhere he looked. Frogs and vermin were equally despicable. Though the weasel had never met a frog... And had no inclination to do so either. He'd probably have to kill it.

 _"I've never met vermin. But daddy says that they're not so bad to us poor folk. He says if we were rich, however, that they'd murder us. I hope froggy never tried to murder me."_

There was an unfamiliar squirming in his stomach. He could not quite place it, it being a never-before-felt sensation. Was this what the weak called pity? It was uncomfortable to say the least.

 _"Anyways Diarry I have to be back afore Nightfall. Goodnight."_

"That's it!?" Snapped Sharpfur, surprised by his own reaction. There was the sound of a door opening and the weasel shot into action. He blew out the candle and kicked it under his bed. Then hopped around clutching his footpaw in pain. The footsteps were coming closer. He slammed the dick-sigh-on-airy shut and slipped it under his pillow. He then shot into bed, the blanket disgarded, and lay still in the most uncomfortable sleeping position ever, the 'Diarry' flat against his stomach.

The door creaked open and Sharpfur hastened to snore. His heart was pattering wildly but he tried to make his breathing sound as normal as possible.

"Poor thing. Must have fell asleep with the dictionary." The hedgepig retrieved the fat book from where it jutted out under his pillow. Gently she arranged his limbs into a comfortable position, before placing a blanket over him. His snores were momentarily interrupted by the disgust he felt when she kissed his forehead.

It was only through his powers of extreme patience that he waited until the door to her own room had closed before he started desperately wiping the spot clean off the face of the world. Disgusting soft woodlanders! His mother hadn't kissed him in seasons! Why couldn't everybeast else be normal like her? The book had been a waste of time it seemed... No matter, there were others... Hopefully one had a way off this infernal island.

Of course... he needed to get the rest of the books first.

* * *

Hawthorn was surprised the next morning when she found Sharpfur enthusiastically assisting the old hedgehog in the kitchens, chattering endlessly about his mother.

"Oh my mammy was a good cook. Very good. Could make almost anything edible! If there weren't any fruits or borrowed veg she'd grind bark in a bowl and mix it with mushrooms an' some herbs. Boil it in water and ye've got the best soup fer miles an' miles. Ye'd be surprised, I swear on me tail everybeast in our crew would ask fer more an' more an' more until me mam started hurlin' back the bowls at 'em. Hehehehehehehehehe!" His paws scrubbed viciously at the dirty dishes.

"Good...morning." Said Hawthorn slowly.

Sharpfur turned to her, a wide grin plastered on his face. "Good morning!"

She blinked and pinched herself.

"Oh, good morning dear. Sharpfur was just telling me about his home."

"And helped with the dishes." Said Grollo, entering dumbstruck.

"Ye bet I did woodlanders!" Said Sharpfur, placing the last squeaky clean plate on a pile of others. He marched forwards between them, spun on his heel and threw his paws about their shoulders. "C'mon now, breakfast's packed and there are strawberries te collect!" He said, throwing his paws into the air in celebration.

"I just woke up." Grollo complained.

"Can't we go after breakfast?" Agreed Hawthorn. For a split second Sharpfur looked murderous, but then he smirked.

"Why ever not?" He turned to the old hedgepig. "You don't mind of course?"

"Don't be silly dear, of course you can have breakfast. Go and sit yourselves down, I'll be with you in a minute."

Sharpfur looked murderous for half a second, but switched into a smile before anybeast noticed. He could not blow this opportunity.

Breakfast was boring, simply put. It was most likely only ten minutes of noisy chewing, but to the impatient weasel it felt like a full season. Then after Grollo the Greedy had finished his _third_ bowl of porridge the kindly old hedgepig had offered him even more- confirming the weasel's suspicions that she was trying to fatten them up!

"Well... I am a growing beast, mam. I need lots of vittles to grow big and strong." The hedgehog replied cheekily, holding his bowl out for more.

"More like short and fat." Muttered Sharpfur contemptuously.

"Look who's talking about short."

"Now, now boys, there's plenty for everybeast." The old hedgepig chided, dipping her ladle into the bowl of porridge.

Grollo licked his lips in anticipation, when Sharpfur got in the way. "NOOOOOOO!" He gave a great cry and rose to his feet adding an impressively small amount of height to himself. He raised a single claw and closed his eyes as he released a powerful statistic he'd made up on the spot. "One bowl of porridge is good for a snack. Two bowls of porridge are good for breakfast. Eat three and you'll end up fat. Four and you'll walk no more!"

The old hedgepig hesitated. "Perhaps... it shan't be too long before lunch anyways."

Grollo was too well-trained to argue and withdrew his bowl with an air of not caring. "I suppose Sharpfur's right."

The weasel clapped his paws together in triumph. "Alrighty, time fer pickin', coz those strawberries won't eat themselves!"

"Since when did you like collecting strawberries?" Grollo cocked his head to the side, his jaw slightly agape.

"Since I read about the health be-nee-fits of the fruit." The lie came easily and confused the hedgepig even more. The weasel was now putting on a coat several sizes too big for him.

"Sharpfur is good at reading now." Said the old hedgehog with fierce pride.

"Abbot Martin would be delighted to meet you." Said Hawthorn. The familiarity of an annoyed Sharpfur would have helped make sense of the scene.

As always, Sharpfur disappointed. "It would be me pleasure! First person I greet when we get back te yer abbey will be the Father Abbot!"

Hawthorn and Grollo shared a stunned look, but it was the old hedgehog who Sharpfur kept track of. Sure enough she had stiffened at the mention of Redwall.

"Well then... I suppose, we'll be back afore lunchtime."Started Hawthorn slowly.

"Yes my dears! Of course yes, as soon as your baskets are full." She smiled, but Sharpfur could tell that the mention of leaving had shook her.

As soon as they were out of earshot of the cottage he turned to his companions, his face dark. His pretense forgotten.

"She'll never let us leave."

"Relax man, you're going from all vermin-ey to cheerful to serious too quickly for me to keep track of." Grollo joked, clutching the sides of his head.

Hawthorn frowned. "What _is_ up with you?"

"Nothing! But look, Spring is here and we're not going anywhere! All we get is 'back afore this-time' and 'back afore that-time'. And that's when we're even allowed outside her vis-i-on."

"Snow is still piled up everywhere in case you haven't noticed." The hedgehog pointed out grumpily.

"Yer an idjit and I am going to prove it to ye. Just wait." He stomped off grumpily, rounded a large pile of trees, then broke into a run.

It had been so easy! Almost too easy! First he pretended to be kind so that the dumb old hedgepig didn't know what he was up to. Then he did it just to tick off the abbeybeasts. It had been difficult at first, but he needed to get the rest of the books. For... reasons...

He slowed down when he thought he reached a familiar looking place. First he had to find them.

* * *

"He's up to something." Grollo murmured, staring at the direction the weasel had taken. It was like the time Fret had come on the otter trip. His stomach twisted painfully. That had been a disaster. From what he'd seen the Skipper had nearly run the ferret through. That would have been horrible... Suddenly he had a very bad feeling about whatever it was Sharpfur wanted to do.

Hawthorn frowned. "I agree that the dish-washing and 'good morning's were a bit suspicious but he can't really do anything." She shrugged. "Should we follow him?"

Grollo shook his head. "It's like you said, he can't really do anything."

They fell into silence as they picked at the sweet, red berries. Hawthorn let her mind wonder. She and Grollo would probably be the last to reach Redwall Abbey. The others were probably worried sick. Poor Bella, she had always been the Badgermum's favourite. And the kindly Friar who was Grollo's father. The food was probably not very good these days.

But when they returned all would be well. There would be a feast to celebrate. Momchillo and Matiya would hug Grollo tight despite his quills, and Roseheart would probably cry. And Sharpfur would... Replace Fret as resident vermin? There was a small jolt in her insides. Fret... She had forgotten about Fret. Well... She supposed Fret was back too. Sharpfur would like that. He wouldn't be the sole vermin in the abbey. Though perhaps it was best if Fret did not come back...

As far as vermin were concerned however, the weasel was not bad. Yes, he stunk. Yes, it would be foolish to trust him. Yet... The three of them had had fun together. The snowball fights, the food fights, the endless bickering... A lot of it had been strangely... Endearing.

"Do you think we'll ever get back?" Grollo's question snapped her back into reality.

"Of course we will!" She said, far too quickly. "Sharpfur's just being worried. Don't worry Grollo, we'll be back soon."

The hedgehog did not seem convinced. "I don't know Hawthorn. It's... been a long time. And it's not like anybeast's looking for us."

"Don't say that! Of course somebeast's looking for us! Your parents are worried sick! And Bella and Abbot Martin!"

"Well... they haven't found us yet, have they?"

The vole looked stricken. "We... well... the others are back!" She said fiercely. "And just because they haven't found us yet doesn't mean they're not looking!"

He blinked, then went a delicate shade of pink. "I know they're looking... I know. It's just..."

"I know what you mean." She said, cutting him off. "But if we loose hope now Grollo, we'll never get back."

"I suppose." He drifted off into sullen silence.

Hawthorn hated looking at anybeast- let alone Grollo, who was ever so kind- sad. "Come on, cheer up. Imagine er- what Abbot Martin's teaching now?"

* * *

Abbot Martin sat cross-legged in front of the young weasels. The four had proven... Difficult. So far, he had been met with silence, snarls and death-threats, usually in reverse order. He had of course faced difficult students before but... Matiya and Grollo were distracted by swordsbeastship and food respectively. Fret was lazy and disinterested. Roseheart was half-blind like most moles. But at the end of the day a single scolding, a stern glance, and the occasional candied chestnut was enough to push them into the right track.

The weasels? Not really. They clung to each other like a pack, and the old mouse had never seen them separated from one another. Scold one and the others would start biting. Throw a stern glance at one, the rest would glare. Give one a candied chestnut... and (as the Abbot had learned the hard way) they would try and choke you with it. He had yet to learn their names. He doubted that would help. Three were indistinguishable and one was a babe.

They slept in an empty cellar, the door was not locked but was too heavy for them to push open from within. They had been given blankets and pillows and clean habits, but refused everything given to them. Feeding them had been difficult at first, purely because nobeast had particularly wanted to do it. And because they had tried to stab the Recorder with a fork when he had eventually started doing it. Abbot Martin had since taken over (and stopped bringing forks). Of course they had mellowed _slightly_ \- or at least they stopped trying to chew his tail off whenever he showed up.

This time he was equipped, not only with lunch, but with a book. It was a History book, as was to be expected, and yet aside from Fret nobeast had failed to be enthralled by it. The ferret had fallen asleep over it at least... twice a day. Though the Abbot would not mind a pack of sleeping weasels at this point. They were sweeter when asleep.

"What do ye want?" Snapped one.

"Well I brought you your supper." He pushed the tray forwards slowly. The quartet crept closer and sniffed suspiciously at the food. Finding no issue they cautiously began nibbling a bun each. "And er- I was hoping you would allow me to read to you."

"We don't need a bedtime story." Snapped another.

"Yeah! Go boil in puddin' abbotmouse!"

The Abbot flinched. Still boiling in pudding seemed superior to 'go flay yourself'. This, he took, to be another hallmark of progress. Even if... Only very slightly. "Now, now. Be reasonable. You may have food and er-comfort, but surely you miss some form of, shall we say entertainment?"

"We don't need your help having fun!"

"Aye! We have lotsa fun!"

"Widout the stupid mice!"

"Please. Surely your parents read- er, told you stories."

"Yer not our papa!"

"Or mammy!"

"I never said-" He protested.

"Let's hit him."

"Aye, t'would be mighty en-tur-tainting."

The old mouse knew better than to take such threats lightly and rose to his shaky old feetpaws. "Very well then. Enjoy your supper." And with that he turned and left.

As the cellar door creaked shut the four were left in semi-darkness, having refused candles of every sort before-paw.

"I wouldn't have minded a story." Mumbled Cheesienibbles.

"Shut it Cheese! Only the weak, ugly, stupid and pathetic wear spectacles."

The Abbot was unsurprised to find Roseheart- or was it Rosebrush? He had always gotten the names mixed up. Still he found the young molemaid waiting for him.

It was to be expected, with all her peers gone and the present, dull mood of the abbey, that she would cling to her elders for hope. Yet most turned her away, too busy with their own problems. A steady decline in the richness of the food showed, clearer than anything to the old Abbot, that most beasts had lost hope of reuniting with their young. After all, nearly a dozen weeks alone and out in the snow could kill grown beasts, what to speak of those still growing? Constance was guilty, that her son had caused so much misery. The Foremole was guilty, for having a daughter safe and at home. The others missed their children. Those that did not have children had gradually stopped trying to cheer the others up. The Recorder wrote sad poetry on the few days he could muster the desire to write anything. The words 'I am sure they are all right' were just an empty promise now.

He himself had given up hope a long time ago... Yet the Abbey needed to continue, as it always had. And he would be damned if Redwall crumbled under his bespectacled gaze.

So he smiled. It was only half-faked, for despite his inner misery he was glad that at least sweet young Rose had come home. The search party were still looking of course, but every time they returned it was empty-pawed. "Rose, cheer up now. What's troubling you?" He already knew what troubled her. Every time she closed her eyes she remembered it all, being tied to a mast, the pack of vermin, being on the dinghy... They had been so close to coming home. Then Matiya had turned back and the ship had lurched...

"Oi bin tryin' ter sleep Father Abbot zurr. But oi... can't."

The old mouse shook his head. "Rose, you know I can't help with that."

"Oi knows it zurr, it's just everybeast else's busy."

The Abbot harrumphed. "Busy moping, as per usual. If only there was a way to smack everybeast out of this sorrow!" The molemaid flinched, and the Abbot lowered his ears guiltily, he hadn't meant to sound so harsh. "I mean, naturally, this is a great tragedy but we must rise above it. Throughout this Abbey's history there have been countless such tragedies, and yet do you think we would be here now if those that came before us failed to pick themselves up and rise to the challenges life hurled at them?"

Once more the mole seemed to stir guiltily. "I am not talking about you." The old mouse explained, holding out his paw. "You have been through a lot Young Rose, you have every right to peace and rest. It is our responsibility to look after you, and so far most of us have failed miserably."

"Oi don't think you failed zurr." She said, very quietly. Yet she gripped his paw as tightly as possible.

"Well, that remains to be seen. Come child, let us find a book to read and drown our sorrows in hope."

"You'm ought ter do speeches."

The Abbot's ears perked up considerably and now his small smile was entirely genuine. "That is nice of you to say."

* * *

The books had been easy to find- almost too easy. And indeed it had only been too easy because Vulpuz, the cruel lord of fate, had decided to mess with him even further. So when he found them most of the pages were soaked through. The crayon was still read-able, but only the first page of each book. The second he tried to turn it he was greeted with torn paper and a glimpse of jumbled paw-writing.

"Useless, useless, useless!" He hissed, hurling another old book as far as he could. It hit a tree and seemed to explode into a thousand pieces of old parchment. At this rate he'd never get home. He'd never see Grey Claw, Blizzard, Heartrip and Redtail or his little sisters... and little Cheese, and his mother and father. Threeclaw would never spar with him. Gulash would not chase him to Hellgates over a thrown snowball. Sick-Eyes would never-

Then he remembered that they were all dead and his hopes fell even further. Still... there was the possibility he could make a living for himself. He was good with a blade and robbing unwary woodlanders was not difficult. He could hide out somewhere in Mossflower and lay in a bed with stolen jewels and eat food pilfered from half-blind picnickers. He could build a collection of hideouts even! So that when somebeast went looking for him he could just hide out and pig out!

Only... He'd do it all alone... Without the Honest Bunch. He'd be singing to himself and laughing at his own jokes and lulling himself to sleep. He'd steal all his own food. He'd steal all his own treasures. He'd...

He realized that he was crying and slammed his head against the trunk of books. It was not fair, not fair, not fair! He'd be alone and- and... "I hope you can hear me Grey- you great, dumb, stupid ugly rat! Because I hate you! I _hate_ you!" Tears were rolling down his cheeks but he did not care. His miserly weakness hurt him... but his heart hurt more. "I hate you for leavin' me! We had... so much more! Te do! Te talk about te- I hope yer burnin' in Hellgates coz ye know how ye was always scared we'd go an' ditch ye like whatever idiot whelped ye- well now I know what it feels like! Coz ye done it to me ye dumb, dumb bloody rat!"

The weasel's foot lashed out in a vicious kick. He hit something very hard, and felt spasms of pain shoot through his whole form. Yet this time he did not hop around in rage. He lashed out again, and again and again... hoping against hope that somehow Greyclaw could feel his pain. By the time he was done the trunk of books and every dumb diary inside it was torn to pieces. Save for one. He lifted it, ignoring the painful throbbing of his footpaw, and found something inside that briefly made his heart soar. It was a map! Of a small island right bam splat in the center of the River Moss. And drawn roughly into a part of it, was what was unmistakably a boat!

The weasel raced along the ground in what was the wrong way. He paused briefly to get his bearings, checked that he was heading in the right direction, and then doubled his speed, the remains of the old books, and his grief forgotten.

* * *

"He'd say that the vermin ate his homework." Both vole and hedgehog collapsed in a heap of laughter, and laughed still more for a long amount of time.

"We should probably be getting back soon." Grollo huffed at last. The two had spent a rather long amount of time laughing and joking, and were both nearly breathless. Their baskets were full and the berry bushes empty, save for those little green ones that would not turn red until summer.

Hawthorn smiled. "You're right. We wouldn't want to be late for lunch, now would we Grollo?"

The hedgehog frowned a little. "I don't eat _so_ much. Sharpfur eats just as much as me. Only he's little so nobeast notices."

"He's little but wishes he was big. Where is he anyways?"

* * *

The little weasel came to a halt in front of a small, dilapidated old shed. He grinned and pushed open the old door. He was unsurprised to find that it was not locked. What he saw next was not surprising either. It was so much better! A boat! An actual boat with an oar and- he raced back outside and around the shed and grinned at the sight of running water. A small stream yes, but it would lead to larger water. The River Moss.

"I am outta here!" He whooped in joy. The weasel barged past the door and lay eager claws on the wood of the little boat. He pulled and pushed and... it failed to budge. "Oh come on! Just! Move!" After tugging and shoving from every possible angle, the weasel collapsed into a panting heap on the ground. "Can nothing _just_ go right! Is freedom too much to ask for? Is it!?" He fell back into panting when his ear gave an involuntary twitch. Far in the distance he could hear his name being called.

Was it lunchtime already? He shot to his feetpaws. He couldn't show the woodlanders this! Not now! Not when- his eyes widened in awe at the sight of the chains tying it to the ground. He darted forwards, searching for a lock. He found it swiftly, and shot his claw inside it. A few moments of frantic wriggling and the lock came free. He threw himself into pushing the boat now and to his immense relief it moved forwards ever-so-slightly.

"Shaaaaaaaarpfur!" The sound was closer now and made him jump, as if what he was doing was wrong and he was about to be caught in his mischief. He paused briefly. He did not have much time before they found his trail, which would surely lead them right to him. Would he manage to get the boat out to the stream before then? And if he did... would he ever see the woodlanders again? His stomach growled slightly. He hadn't had anything for breakfast and... his feetpaw suddenly refused to budge. "Move stupid feet we got to go! We have to... go..." Go where? He did not have anybeast waiting for him. He did not have anywhere to be. Sickletail was not there to welcome him home.

He sighed heavily, growled, kicked the boat as hard as he could, hopped on one foot, pulled himself together and stomped out the door. The map and the book he tucked into his sleeves and slowly he trudged up the ground he'd come from.

Sharpfur told himself it was because he needed to get supplies first. Because he needed help pushing the boat into the stream. Because he couldn't just go traveling alone. There was safety in numbers! Yet ultimately he had to admit, no matter how much he resented it, that he was not the type of beast who could live alone. Dumb and stupid they might be but... the woodlanders were his only friends left.

* * *

"Shaaaaaarpfur!"

"Right behind ye." The weasel snapped, bursting through a small bush that had just begun flowering.

"What happened to you?" Asked Grollo. The weasel's glasses were askew, his large coat disheveled, his left footpaw red and swollen.

"Nothin'. Now quite yer shoutin' and let's go eat! I ain't sure about you numpties, but I'm starvin'!" Adjusting his spectacles he proceeded to lead the way back towards the cottage. He disappeared behind a tree as Grollo leaned down towards Hawthorn.

"He's up to something." The hedgehog whispered to the vole from out the side of his mouth.

"I know. But what can he do?" She whispered back.

"Ye'd be surprised. I've got pretty good hearing." He said, reappearing between them. He threw his paws round their shoulders and now guided them all forwards. "I'm goin' ter be honest with ye, I've grown..." He seemed to be struggling to say the last word, till at last it burst out from him. "Attached."

"Attached?" Hawthorn turned to him, perplexed.

"Te ye lot." The weasel explained.

"What's that supposed to mean?" Asked Grollo with a frown.

Sharpfur shook his head. "Eh forget it. Let's go grab some lunch."


	32. Blue Lake

**A/N: Previously on Fret and Momchillo's return journey the two encountered some difficulty dealing with each other... that might be an understatement. Regardless the pair are still alive and well. Just so you don't get confused regarding these two I'm going to try and alternate between who's point of view we're reading from with the line thing. So the previous chapter (Chapter Thirty I believe) was Fret's. This one will be mostly Momchillo at first, Fret in the middle and finally Momchillo. Just so you're clear.**

Momchillo did not realize he was dreaming until he felt a warm paw on his shoulder. The mouse shot to his feetpaws, his jaw dropping as his eyes found the figure before him.

For a very long time he was unable to do anything beyond stand and gawp at Martin the Warrior.

He was dreaming, he realized suddenly. But that did not make this experience any less real. He had _heard_ of course that the fabled warrior would come and guide the creatures of Redwall in times of trouble. But he was leagues away from Redwall and had been in trouble for weeks! Still any misgivings he could have had vanished as excitement set in.

It was almost tradition that every generation of dibbuns dreamed of doing what their ancestors did. Fight for justice and freedom. Solve the nefarious riddles left behind by some old, wise beast seasons prior. Find a great treasure. Feast (of course, for bodies needed nourishment) and meet Martin the Warrior.

Of those activities, the latter had always appealed to Momchillo the most. Matiya wanted to fight. Grollo wanted to feast. But he had always wanted to meet his idol. And here he was! His tail wagged rapidly behind him and he opened his mouth to say something, anything. The warrior smiled and he was unable to say anything. Remembering that the legendary Martin must have come for some purpose he found the larger mouse's paw pointed forwards diagonally across the icy lake.

"I should go that way?" He asked suddenly, his vision swallowed by the vast frozen lake lying before him. The warrior did the smallest of nods and Momchillo gave an undignified squeal of delight.

Martin's smile seemed to widen slightly, and gently he patted the top of Momchillo's head. "You have been very brave so far, but you must be braver still. The path to Redwall Abbey is long and perilous and I can promise you now that it won't be easy. Just remember to be brave, and stay brave. And every turn from this point forwards must be to the left."

"Thank you! Left, right? I mean, just left."

"Exactly."

Overwhelmed with excitement and joy, the young mouse shot forwards, his tail continuously wagging behind him. He was going for a hug, but was met instead with a face-full of snow.

"Fret!" He snarled, pulling himself back to his feetpaws. Wait? He had jumped? So Fret hadn't hurled a bucket of snow at him?

"What?" Squeaked the ferret, shrinking in on himself.

A small bubble of guilt swelled up inside him. "Er-nothing, I was sleeping."

Now Fret looked annoyed. "So what were you pulling my tail for?"

Momchillo grimaced. "I- look it doesn't matter! The point is I know the way back!"

"Yeah. So do I."

Both pointed forwards... only in opposite directions. "That way!"

Fret was scowling darkly. "No, it's right across Blue Lake, which is _this_ way!"

"Yes, but it's Spring and ice melts in springtime. If we go _that_ way the ice will break beneath us." He had no way of knowing of course, the snow seemed to be doing no melting. But still he had to convince Fret to come with him. Splitting up was not an option! Even if they _could_ split up." I had a dream Fret. And you'll never guess who I saw! Martin the Warrior!" This would have delighted Matiya, made Grollo squeal and Hawthorn faint.

Fret merely donned his most sardonic smile and crossed his paws across his chest. "Really? Martin the Warrior? Sure! Sure! Let's go where he says we should go- oh but wait! He told _you_ to go that way, but he didn't say anything to me! Maybe... perhaps... it's because... oh yeah! He's dead. He's dead and he's _not_ here _._ And if he is here now, where was he when we got kidnapped? Where was he when I-" He stopped suddenly, as if he'd almost said something indecent.

"Fret. You know just as well as I do that in times of trouble Abbeybeasts everywhere have seen him and received guidance from-"

"I know, I know." The ferret snapped crossly. "Martin the _bloody_ Warrior! Slayer of vermin and bringer of justice. Oh wait, I _am_ vermin. Maybe I shouldn't listen to somebeast who goes around-"

"Fret! You're being ridiculous! Why would Martin want to kill you?" The mouse did not give him time to think of anything. "Look, if we don't find anything, we can turn back around. We're far enough from Redwall for it not to make a difference. We have all the time in the world."

"You mean all the time in the world until we starve or freeze to death." The ferret muttered under his breath.

The mouse cradled his head in his paws just to stop himself from loosing his temper. "Please! Just for a bit and then we can turn back and go your way. Okay?"

Fret froze on the verge of speech. Then the ferret deflated. "Fine."

Internally the mouse breathed a sigh of relief. There was only so much arguing he could do... He spun on his heel to begin the trek, when a familiar tug on his tail reminded him of the ferret.

"And how are we supposed to walk with our tails tied together? 'Martin' didn't give a solution to that, did he?" Momchillo was thoroughly tempted to smack him. With difficulty he restrained himself, though his reply was still tempered with anger.

"You could walk backwards then."

"Not gonna happen." The ferret's paws crossed over his chest once more, as the mustelid straightened up obstinately.

"You could try and carry me then!" Momchillo snapped.

"Never in a hundred seasons." Fret snapped back.

"I could carry you!"

"Nah-ah."

"Fret you are difficult! If only we had a sled! Then I could drag- hey that's it! I'll drag you!"

"No thank you!"

"Then you can drag me!"

"Nope!"

"Do you want to go back to Redwall or not!?"

"No! I mean yes!" The ferret growled slightly. "This is ridiculous!"

A tense silence entered the scene. Both held the other's gaze for as long as they could. Finally, after what felt like a lifetime, Fret gave in.

"Fine! I'll walk." He spat the last word out as viciously as he could, but Momchillo tolerated him. He could not, and would not loose this opportunity! He couldn't wait to see Matiya and Grollo's reactions when he told them of what had transpired in his dream. The hedgehog's jaw would drop to the floor, and Matiya would ask for every little detail. The exact colour of his fur. Length of the tail. Size of the sword hanging from his belt.

He was wrenched free from his thoughts when he found himself slipping backwards on the ice. He and Fret came crashing down onto the frozen water. The pair got up without a word and continued. A few feet after and both came crashing down again. They rose to their feetpaws, Fret grumbling in anger. The third time the pair fell their head's bashed against each other's, making both mouse and mustelid dizzy.

"This isn't going to work." Said Fret, clutching the sides of his head, his vision spinning around him.

"You're right. Plan B."

The ferret was dizzy enough to ask. "What's Plan B?"

* * *

'Plan B' was getting dragged. To say that Fret did not like it would be an understatement. He hated it! But what did it matter to the mouse? Momchillo had never really taken Fret's preferences into account. If not for him the ferret would be curled up in an armchair, reading a book or snoring, with Clogg pacing the cabin they shared. He would not be shivering and worrying about his next meal- No!

He was being stupid. Clogg was a pirate. A cruel, sadistic vermin if ever there was one! His crew was the same and Bork was worse. Fret did not belong in such company. Just like he had not belonged with the Honest Bunch and how he had never belonged at Redwall. Perhaps he belonged nowhere...

Still it was a little late for misgivings. He and Momchillo were stuck together. Fate was cruel like that. There was almost nothing he could do now. The mouse would drag him back to Redwall and his doom. Momchillo knew about the stupid book, knew not to trust him and knew what he had done. If they ever got back to Redwall he would be faced with his Nuncle's murder, the other disappearances and a list of further crimes so long that not even Constance could wriggle him out of trouble... Not that she'd want to...

But what could he do? Momchillo was stronger than him, cleverer than him, braver than him... There was no way he could trick the mouse and combat was out of the question. So he let himself get dragged without much complaint.

Even if he could escape, where would he go? Bork would gut him at best and Clogg was not beyond flaying a paw.

The ferret gave a particularly violent shiver at the memory. The blood dripping down Silvertongue's gory hand was as present in his mind as thoughts of terrible things to come. If Sharpfur ever found out about that... The ferret gulped audibly. The little weasel would give him no quarter...

In short his chances of survival were slim to none. He desperately tried to stop his mind from wandering, but that was hard when even the dirty ice reminded him of Clogg's one working eye. And Blue Lake... he'd heard a lot of Blue Lake from the rat.

 _"I've been under it." He remembered being told. It had been a dark and stormy night and Clogg had found Fret curled up on an armchair, staring at a map of the Northlands, and leaning over the young ferret's head had proceeded to point out all the myths and legends that surrounded the vast lake. "Some say a whale got stuck when it froze over, and the blue's just it's skin shinin' through the ice. Others say that it's where Vulpuz keeps the souls of Hellgates." He gave a nonchalant shrug. "I never saw any souls down there. I've heard lots of beasts say it's precious gems what make it so blue. Heh, those ones all end up dead. Ye want ter know what's really under there?" He leaned further forwards, so that he was staring into Fret's eyes upside down._

 _The ferret gave the tiniest of nods and Clogg's face split into a grin. "Snakes! Snakes an' tunnels. It's a labyrinth lil' Whimper, carved inter the ice centuries ago by beasts tryin' ter escape winter. Those beasts were very clever and brave, an' good diggers too. They wintered in their caverns of ice, and left when the Spring returned. Seasons went by, an' whole generations of young an' oldbeasts had lived and perished under the ice. Then came the snakes. Slowly at first. One by one. But then they all came, and the caves were full of the slitherin' things. There was no escape. Those clever diggin' beasts were trapped in their own beautiful creation. Some say they're still trapped down there, unable to leave for fear of gettin' eaten. And those that try and escape never see the light of day again. Some get lost in their pretty caverns. But most find the snakes."_

 _Fret swallowed. The tale was scaring him, but curiosity forced him to inquire further. "What kind of snakes?"_

 _"Huge ones Whimper. So large they could swaller ye whole an' kickin'. They say they look ye right in the eye, and they hold yer gaze. They watch yer fear and their eyes change colour till ye see the eyes of yer loved ones. Only when ye think yer safe and happy, do they strike!" He lurched suddenly, so that Fret jumped slightly, then the rat straightened up, laughing uproariously. He ruffled the fur between his ears with familiar fondness. "But don't ye worry lil' Whimper. Just stay away from Blue Lake like a good lil' varmint and if ye do have any problems with snakes ye know ye can tell them ter Captain Clogg! He'll sort 'em out for ye. Sure as Hellgates he will!" Then the rat had patted the top of his head and went back to pacing._

Fret sighed. If Clogg ever went down in history it would be as another cursed pirate, dead at the paws of some hero. No mention would be made of his kindness... After all Fret was sure he was the only beast to ever see it.

And yet if he caught the ferret in present company he'd flay Momchillo alive and kicking. And then Fret would have no choice but to stay and be a pirate. A villainous, verminous... Vermin. But wasn't he vermin? His denial had always been 'I am a ferret. Not vermin.' But although not all vermin were ferrets, all ferrets were vermin. There could be no separating the two. And it would be easier, wouldn't it? To drag himself back to Clogg's cabin and let destiny blow him as far away from Redwall as possible...

Nobeast would know for sure what became of him. Nobeast but Momchillo. Who would tell everyone. A small growl errupted from him. He would be damned if he gave anybeast the satisfaction of telling his momma they were right all along. That no good would come of him. That he'd only break her heart.

Were they really wrong though? He had done very little good in his short life. Most of what he'd done didn't count as bad either but ranting about how unfair everybeast was -a _favourite_ pastime- didn't qualify as _'noble'_ , _'heroic'_ , _'kind'_ or _'good'_ , no no, it was _'selfish'_ and _'mean'_ and _'petty'_... What did it matter that it was _'honest'_?

As for breaking her heart... Well he hadn't really done that. Whoever had told her he'd done a bunk had broken her heart. Whoever had told her that they had been right all along, had broken her heart. His Nuncle... If he was alive, would have broken her heart a hundred times over. He could picture it all so vividly it had to be real. Connington's tail swishing behind him as he approached Constance. The tiny squeaks and excuses his Nuncle would emit... Constance's face shifting slowly from a stunned glare to a look of disbelief... And finally... "Fret did it."

That would break her heart, if nothing else did.

* * *

Momchillo was satisfied by what he had achieved this morning. Despite all the misgivings he had about Fret, being tied to Fret, Fret lying to him, Fret hiding something from him, _all_ the ferret had done before, being in the Northlands to begin with! Yet Martin the Warrior had visited him, that was enough to make his day! And as a bonus the legendary warrior had shown him the path home.

The journey was not exactly smooth. Fret was undoubtedly unhappy (though for once he actually had a reason to be so), and the longing sighs and small growls the ferret gave out every once in a while were certainly ominous signs. But Momchillo was not naturally a worrier, and distracted himself with the familiar delight of exploration.

The ice beneath his feetpaws was dirty, like frozen mud glazed in snow, but further out on the lake it was a wonderful shade of blue. Dark, yet luminescent, nothing at all like the dull sky above them both. If Grollo or Matiya were here they would no doubt follow him in his joy of exploration. They would slide along, laughing and singing, without a care in the world. They would have dared each other to approach the eerie skull of a snake that stared right through the mouse with eyes long-frozen. Matiya would do it. And without a second thought too. The mouse doubted he'd run from a living snake either. The squirrel was brave like that... brave but stupid. Bitterly he was reminded that this was really all _his_ fault. 'Let's go rescue Fret', he had said. 'It'll be fun.' He had said.

Dragging a short-tempered little gutter-rat home was anything but fun!

The mouse could not resist the small kick he gave. A minute shard of ice bounced away and came to a halt at the foot of a small hill. Instantly, and inexplicably, he knew he'd found what he was looking for.

"Ta-da!" He shouted, spreading his arms wide to show off his find. Their was a pause, in which Fret blinked away from his thoughts and into reality. "Er-You can get up now."

The ferret climbed to his feet and turned round. His jaw dropped slightly and Momchillo's face split into a grin.

The hill was not too big, yet still towered over them both. Yet it looked minute compared to the mountains they had left behind. Peppered-in were caves small and large, so that it resembled a large, snow-crusted honeycomb.

"This Fret is why we went my way."

* * *

 _Footnote: Feels like a short chapter since my last publication was so big... Though this is honestly my preferred length...  
_

 _Regardless, I hope you enjoyed._


	33. Into the Honeycomb Hill

"A hill? We came all the way here for a hill?"

Momchillo scowled. Why was the ferret so damn hard to please? "It's not just a hill! We're obviously meant to go through the tunnels." He wasn't entirely sure about that either, but why else would the Warrior send them there? Fret didn't seem to agree...

"That's a horrible idea! You have no idea what's down there! W-what could be down there! And h-how, we'll get lost! No! This is a bad idea. A _bad idea!_ "

"But Martin-"

"You were dreaming!" The ferret seemed to be having a small panic attack. His paws were flailing madly around him. "And you never said anything about a tunnel! Or that we had to go inside one! Or that-"

Momchillo grabbed him by the front and shook sense into him, physically as well as verbally. "You need to relax!" Momentarily the ferret stopped his gibbering, and Momchillo siezed his moment. Throwing his paw round the ferret's shoulder he held Fret close to. "Trust me, okay? I know we have to go this way, I just know it!"

"N-no you _don't!_ " The ferret spluttered, trying to pull himself free of the mouse's grip. Momchillo held firm.

"And we won't get lost, it's simple really. We just have to go left. Every turn from this point onwards has to be to the left!"

Fret merely gawped at him, as if he was nothing short of barking mad. "It was a dream!" He whined, pulling himself free from the mouse and backing as far away from the hill as he could.

Momchillo dragged his paw across his face. Fret was being ridiculous, as always.

"It was a dream." He was repeating uselessly. "And you'd risk my li- _our_ lives- for a dream?"

"And you'd do it for a book." Momchillo snapped before he could help it. The ferret winced, but refused to back down. His spluttering continued but it was entirely ineligible now. Merely the first part of a hundred different words he could not bring himself to finish. Momchillo silenced him with a glare and the ferret shrunk on impact. "Look, if we're going to make it back to Redwall we're going to have to settle a few things. First of all, I'm in charge."

Fret, predictably, did not take things well. "Yeah. Of course you would be. Momchillo the Magnificent. Momchillo the Majestic." He stretched his arms wide in mock glorification. "Momchillo, the Moron!"

"Better than Fret the Foolish, Fret the Frustration and Fret the Fuc-" Momchillo growled. He could not drag himself down to Fret's level. The pair needed one steady head of they would make it back. And for obvious reasons, it would have to be his. "Can we please just go this way?"

"No! Not today! Not tomorrow! Not ever!"

Momchillo felt his tail thrashing behind him in rage. The temptation to smack Fret silly had never been more pronounced. A cunning plan made itself visible to him, and the mouse acted upon it. His chest deflated and he sat down on the ice, arms crossed in stubborn resignation. "Fine then. We'll just sit here."

"Are you mad!?" Fret half-snapped half-whined, the panic visibly returning to him. "We can't stay here! It's cold and and we don't have anything to eat and I'm hungry and and- we knocked out the Prince! W-what if they come after us? B-Bork, I mean the Prince he-he'll-"

"Well Fret, you'll just have to think of something won't you?"

The ferret's lip quivered but Momchillo was unsure if it was out of sadness or rage. "B-but-"

"Don't you want to be in charge? To lead the way? Seemed like that a minute ago, Oh Great and Mighty Fret the Fearsome!"

"This isn't funny!" The mustelid snapped.

"I never said you were Fret the Funny-"

"Momchillo!"

"What is it?" The mouse put on his most infuriatingly sweet smile.

The ferret opened and closed his mouth, before his whole form quivered and clutched the sides of his downcast head. "Why do you always do that?" The question seemed genuine, as if it was the last of Fret's many shields, and came from the very depth of his soul.

"Do what?" Momchillo asked, temporarily dropping the act.

"Win! One-up me! Prove your superiority! I don't know." The ferret shook his head. "I know I'm not good enough you don't need to-" Once more it seemed like the ferret was physically forcing the words out rather than just saying them. "T-to -to all- to always- You're always right! And you're always better and you're always, you're always so, so so-"

"So so-so?" It was almost as if Fret were speaking a different language. Momchillo heard him all right, and the words glued themselves to the front of his mind. But nothing he did seemed to make sense of them. Until at last it clicked. "Are you jealous?" It was not a taunt, not a sneer, merely a question, and one Momchillo thought he already knew the answer to.

The ferret paused, and for one glorious moment it seemed like he was about to say yes, and that finally they would get somewhere. Then the moment was over.

"Of course not! It's just- Everybeast always said- Abbot Martin always picked- Fine! We'll go your way."

This was Fret's way out of the conversation, yet Momchillo did not care and snatched at his opportunity before the ferret could back out of it. "Excellent! Alright, I think it's only fair you get to choose the tunnel."

The mustelid's eyes widened. For a while all he could do was splutter, as per usual, and then he spoke. "W-wh-what do you mean pick one?"

"I mean I'm being nice and letting you choose where to stick your head in."

"B-but- Martin didn't mention-"

Momchillo's lie was swift and to the point. As bad as it was to not speak the truth, the rules of Redwall could not always be applied, especially not out here. "He said that my companion would know the way."

"B-bu-but I _don't._ And you just said you were being n-nice-"

"And you just said you'd go! Well we haven't got all day and the longer we stay out here, the more likely we are to freeze to death. So grow a backbone and get going!" He hadn't intended to snap, the last thing he needed was for Fret to start crying, but he was getting really fed up of all this!

Fret cowered, and his lip quivered, but sure enough (and to Momchillo's immense relief) he crawled towards a large tunnel near the bottom of the hill. He peered into it cautiously, and sniffed at it worriedly. He swallowed. "I-I still think this is a bad idea."

Momchillo gave no response beyond an inpatient cough and Fret, at last, gave in and began to crawl forwards. The mouse turned away so that his tail did not impede his companion, and walked slowly backwards.

Getting his lower half into the tunnel was not so difficult, and he was up to his elbows inside the tunnel when Fret stopped moving suddenly. He could tell from the gentle, albeit frantic, tugging at his tail, that the ferret was shaking like a leaf.

"W-what if we get stuck?" The ferret gulped. "An-and if this is a dead end and we can't get back out again and-" Fret's voice was quaking and muffled, and right now the last thing Momchillo wanted to hear. The mouse gritted his teeth, and through them spoke.

"We can't get stuck because you're going in first. If you can't fit than I can't. We won't get stuck. Come on Fret, don't be scared." The mouse continued pushing himself inside. "This is all." The ferret was now trying to back out, but Momchillo was not going toet that happen. Not after his dream, not after getting so close to following through with Martin's advice. It was like walking all the way to Redwall and then being too scared to enter the abbey. "One. Big. Adventure."

"This is torture!" Came Fret's indigant reply. The ferret stopped resisting and slumped against the floor of the tunnel. "I don't care, I'm not going!"

Momchillo lost his temper, and tried his hardest to kick him, but alas the ferret was out of reach. Till at last he gave up, and growling, slumped against the floor of the small tunnel.

There was a pause.

"...So can you let me out now?"

Momchillo gritted his teeth with enough force to crack a walnut. "No! _You're_ not coming out, and _I'm_ not coming out. We're just going to lie here and wait for who-knows-what to happen! Go to sleep Fret, and maybe Martin the Warrior can smack some sense into you. Maybe you'll start being more like him, eh? Imagine that Fret, being brave!"

"I can't be brave! And Martin the Warrior was a mouuuuuuuuuuuuse!"

Suddenly they were sliding forwards at tremendous speeds- Fret must have slipped on something- and try as he might to slow them down, it was out of Momchillo's paws. After the first shock it was not entirely unpleasant, it was like sliding down a tree-branch. He used to do that all the time... With Matiya...

Just as his thoughts drifted to the squirrel there came a sudden, painful, lurch and he and Fret were sent rolling over one another in a tangle of screaming, writhing fur. They hurtled head-over-heels, until they came to a halt with a sound like corking a bottle.

There were a few moments of dizziness, followed by the horrible realization that Fret had been right to be scared. His arms were pinned to his side, and legs sandwhiched between his stomach, and some indiscernible part of Fret's back.

The ferret's face was squished between Momchillo's lower half and the icy floor that held them in place. His speech was barely audible, and more muffled than ever. But one did not need to be a genius to guess what he was saying.

"GEROOOFF! I'm notta bear!"

"I know you're not a chair!" Momchillo for his part, was struggling to get his paws free. If he could just move them out a little bit...

"Den ssstopsssitting on me!"

"I'm stuck Fret!" The mouse snapped.

"Brilliant! You're brilliant Momshillo! Areal geniuth! I thaid this would happen! But of course, I was jusssst being thtupid! And here I am getting crushed by-"

"Ferret's can bend their ribs right?" Abbot Martin had told them that once... long ago.

"Well ssnot like I gan do much bending under your fat-"

Momchillo pressed down on the ferret's back with his feetpaws, doing his best to build some distance between himself and Fret. It also had the added bonus of shutting up his companion. With the new-found space the mouse _just_ managed to get his arms under him. Momchillo pulled himself forwards, releasing Fret's head from the tremendous pressure of the mouse's weight. And also letting him whine to his heart's content.

"I told you it was a bad idea! I told you! But I'm the one who had to grow a backbone! I'm the one being ridiculous and unreasonable. I'm the one who has to get kicked in the back for-"

"Just! Shut! Up!" Snapped Momchillo, popping free of the tunnel like a cork from a bottle. The mouse slid to the ground, panting softly.

Fret did not give him the chance to relax. "You'd be just as 'ridiculous' and 'cowardly', if you were in my paws! Imagine somebeast getting angry at you for being right and not wanting to follow a stupid dream!" Fret pushed himself to his feetpaws and bent backwards slightly. His spine gave a delightful 'click' and the ferret winced. "I think I broke something."

"I'm sorry okay! Is that what you want to hear? Now will you _quit whining_ already?"

"No! I won't! And you wouldn't either if you were squished under my butt! Or if you had to listen to a stubborn little mouse, who's always right about everything, even though he's always wrong and who's so sure we won't get stuck! And we won't get lost! Well guess what, now we're both!"

Momchillo climbed to his feet and tuned out his complaining companion. The mouse now proceeded to analyze his surroundings with keen interest.

The first thing he realized was that it was a lot warmer down here than above ground. Odd considering they were surrounded by ice. The whole place gave off an otherworldly glow of dark but shiny blue. He stared at his reflection, and tensed the muscles along his arm. His reflection looked enormous and strong. He deeply wished that he looked more like it. Then he'd have never been enslaved...

Fret shuffled over to him. The ferret's own reflection looked taller and thinner than in reality. It was disturbing and strangely pitiful. Momchillo noticed one paw was nursing the other and turned to his companion.

"What's wrong?"

"N-nothing." The ferret replied distractedly, eyeing the surrounding walls with worry.

"What's with your paw?"

"It's fine." Fret snapped and tried to pull away. Momchillo was quicker and grabbed the ferret by the wrist. There was nothing wrong with the ferret's paw, save for his thumbclaw, bent in a painful, unnatural, angle.

"Don't worry. I think I can fix this."

"N-no! It's fine. I can fix it mysel-owowowowowow!"

Momchillo twisted, and with a 'pop' the thumbclaw slid back into it's rightful place.

Fret pulled away sharply, and waved his paw haphazardly through the air, in what the mouse knew to be exaggerated pain.

"You're welcome." The mouse said curtly, turning away from Fret.

The whimpering ended instantly and was replaced with the usual; stuttering and snapping."W-welcome? Welcome! What do you mean _welcome!?_ I AM A HUNDRED FEET UNDER A FROZEN LAKE!"

"And so am I!"

"B-but this was your stupid idea. Y-you wanted to come here, not me! I said I wanted out, but you didn't let me, I said this was a bad idea, but you're smarter and because I'm scared my opinion doesn't matter. And you have a dream about Martin the Warrior and I'm supposed to do whatever you say because of that. And now we're lost and we have no way out of here."

Momchillo had long since decided it was easier to ignore him, and let Fret rant away to his heart's content.

"And now you're ignoring me and-"

"Alright, we should go left here." The mouse said, paws on his hips, oblivious to all that had been said.

Fret growled. "My left or your left?"

"We're facing the same way. So our lefts are all the same."

The ferret's mouth hung open slightly, and then he went back to complaining. Thankfully this time it was under his breath.

* * *

 _Damn woodlanders. You took my freedom... My dignity... And my clothing... The last one really hurt..._

Deathglare was still alive and, thankfully, un-eaten. He'd escaped slavery, only to be captured by a drunk mouse and a mad hare. The pine marten was unpleasantly crammed into a barrel far too small for him to sit comfortably. They had also shoved him in head-first. Or rather, the hare had. His rags had been unceremoniously ripped off and used to tie his muzzle shut, leaving him an even more tattered tunic than before. His legs were pressed hard against the wood and his own form, as were his paws. His face was pressed against his chest and his shoulders sore.

The pine marten was becoming painfully familiar with his own stench. Most vermin, particularly the weasel family he'd lived with back in the Honest Bunch, had prided themselves on bathing once a season... at most. Deathglare was not the same. He could not stand breathing in the foul smell of his own fur. Occasionally he could even drag Threeclaw with him and have a companion that did not remind him of a latrine pit... for a few days at least.

"Keep washing yourself Death and maybe you can have fur as white as mine!" The albino would say if he ever caught the marten scrubbing at his form. Deathglare would usually glare at him at this point.

Alas, he had had much difficulty introducing a 'Bath Day'. None of his ilk wanted any involvement with the nasty things he got from woodlanders called soap. In truth he hadn't liked it either, but there was no denying the scent of roses was far more appealing than musk and sweat. Of course the only other beast that had agreed to 'Bath Day' was Grey Claw, and at times the rat behaved more like a mouse.

The lid was wrenched free and the barrel kicked forwards, so that it's sole occupant came spilling out.

One-Eye frowned. "So vermin, here's what's going to happen. I'm going to ungag you nice and easy now, an' you can answer some questions honest-like. Think you can manage that?"

Deathglare nodded slightly. The hare tugged the muzzle off and dragged the pine marten to where he could prop him against a wall.

"Alright. Name first me laddo. And quick-like, wot. I haven't got all day."

Deathglare licked his teeth. "Deathglare." The hare was familiar, and he was almost entirely sure he'd seen him before.

"Profession?"

"I was a member of the Honest Bunch before we were attacked by the beasts currently in possession of this castle. Most of us died. I was taken captive and made to work in the mines." He failed to mention that the Honest Bunch had lived a very dishonest life, and that his latest 'profession' had been the abduction of several children.

"Hmm, come to think of it I think I've seen you a couple of times before. Where's your little rat?"

It took Deathglare a moment to realize who he was talking about. "I know very few rats." If he gave the woodlanders too much too quickly then there was nothing stopping them from killing him. His life, as usual, hung in the balance. He had to play his cards right. Unfortunately he had not much room to play.

The hare nodded at the information and paused. The Captain seemed on the verge of asking him another question, but decided against it. "Well alright then. Thank you for the help." The hare promptly threw him into a headlock and squeezed. For a second Deathglare was worried he'd lose consciousness again, but then he was freed and his muzzle once again bound by ripped cloth. "It's nothin' personal ole chap. Just can't tell if you're telling the truth or not, wot, wot. Don't worry, I'll figure it out. But for now, it's the barrel for you mate!"

The pine marten began writhing in the hare's grip, but it was too late. A moment later his head hit the floor of his prison. The lid was slammed shut over him, and Deathglare was left in darkness. His nose was pressed against his stomach, and there was no escaping his own horrible smell. It was a smaller barrel... wider, but shorter. And more crammed, he could not move a muscle and his position was anything but comfortable.

"No hard feelings, eh? Wot, wot." He heard the hare patting his cage before walking off. "Connington! Stay off the ale! No! Stop drinking, wot!"

 _Stupid dumb woodlanders.._. Still, he was alive, wasn't he?

* * *

 _Footnote: No need to brag, but I feel so good right now. Only took me a couple of days and I've already finished up one fic, edited two others to perfection (or as close to it as someone like me can get) and even managed to update the many misadventure of Fret and his friends._


	34. Under The Lake

**A/N: Dear Abrahem,**

 **Thank you for taking the time to review, it was appreciated. Yeah, Sharpfur's a favourite. I won't say he's based off of Tuco- but I can see similarities (of course I didn't know who Tuco was until you mentioned him so perhaps it's just benefit of hindsight).**

 **Sorry Chapter 34 took a while- I've been busy, but I'm glad I could change your mind about fanfics (really they get a bad press in general but finding good ones isn't too hard- if you want some further recommendations I am more than happy to share). On another note I'll have to warn you that this story... doesn't have the best of Update Schedules, so the gap between chapters can sometimes be very long, and sometimes you get five in one night. This also means that unless you get an account (and I'm not going to make you do that) you're going to have to wait for an update to have a response.;  
**

 **Poetry? Haha, can't really help with that. I think there was one that I liked somewhere in the Redwall archive but... It evades me now...**

 **I didn't have any plans regarding the dirk... until you mentioned it. Just wanted to find a weapon that was both unique, yet at the same time commonplace. Although, I do have some ideas now that you mention it.**

 **Blizzard, Heartrip and Redtail... I don't really have any plans for them at the moment, but at the same time don't want to go on record and say 'they're dead' in case I *do* think of something. Let's just leave their fate as... disambiguous. Although I won't lie, the odds of them returning are slim to none.**

 **A further note, but this is more to everyone than just you specifically. I know the Fret and Momchillo arc is starting to wear you down, but just hang in there. We shall be moving on to the rest of the cast soon.**

 **Now without further ado...**

If Fret had not grown accustomed to staring at the grinning skulls that lined the walls he'd have probably fainted. Here and there within the icy caverns there lay the definite signs of death. The abandoned quills of a hedgehog. The missing teeth of a squirrel, abandoned by the skull that lay a few feet away. Spines and ribs. Skulls and arms. Even a small sword that lay just out of reach of what could have been either a rat or a mouse.

All of which Momchillo pointedly ignored.

Despite all of his protests, all his suggestions, the mouse stubbornly refused to believe in anything he said. He was just a coward after all. A vermin and a coward and... he shook his head despondently. Thinking like that had never been useful, no matter how honest it was.

A fox glared down at them from the ice above. It's old, gnarled figure forever frozen into a snarl. "Momchillo."

"Left, Fret. Left." The mouse replied, ignoring the old, dead fox and turning left.

The ferret let out a snarl of his own, before a tug at his tail reminded him to follow. There was a strange smell within the icy caverns... one he had never encountered before, yet sent chills down his spine. He shivered uncomfortably, ignoring the now-painful growls of his stomach as best he could.

Momchillo's ears were better than his nose, and as such he had no such worries. Yes the skeletons were worrisome, but if he lost his head now then he and Fret were both doomed. And it would be his fault. The poor creatures had gotten lost, he would not. Every left turn, he took. Although his heart hammered against his chest and panic lurked beneath his skin, there was too much at stake to give in. It would be almost as bad, however, if Fret suddenly panicked. So the mouse decided it was in his best interests to make sure that did not happen.

Yet he knew so little about his companion that he had no idea how to reach his goal.

"So Fret... What do you like?" Mentally, he facepalmed.

"What do I like?" The ferret repeated bitterly. "Hmm, let me think. Not starving to death under a frozen lake. Not getting lost under a frozen lake. Not being under a frozen lake. Not being under a frozen lake with you-"

"Fret! For the last time, we are not getting lost! Now please, stop complaining. Anyways the only way out now is _left_."

"Or we can turn around and go _right_." The ferret snapped.

"Too late for that. Now, stop changing the subject. What is it you like to _do_?"

"To do? Well I don't like talking to you. I don't like walking. I don't like-"

"Let's sing something. Should keep our spirits up."

"Really? _Really?_ No thank you. No _thank you._ We're doomed. We're lost. We're trapped. And sooner or later we'll..." The ferret shivered suddenly and searched the walls, as if worried they would burst out at him. "I'm not singing!" He spat.

Momchillo gritted his teeth. "Fret, I will go _mad_ if I cannot do anything until we get to Redwall."

" _If_ we get to Redwall."

"We _will_ get back!"

"I have my doubts."

Silence overtook them, an uneasy silence that did nothing to help Momchillo's beating heart. "Fret. We're so far away from Redwall that... that we have to work together to get home."

"Humph. Work together? You mean I have to listen to every single one of your stupid dreams until something kills me?"

"Nothing is going to kill you Fret. Look. Okay." The mouse stopped, and turned, his paw stretched out ahead of him. "I promise, I _promise_ that from now on I'll listen to you."

Hesitantly the ferret made to shake his paw. Momchillo, barely concealing his grin, snatched Fret's paw and shook it.

"But, you have to be fair."

"Fair?" Fret tried to pull away, but the mouse held him firm.

"You can't just say no to everything I suggest."

There was an extended pause until finally the ferret spoke. "Fine."

"Good." The mouse turned back, now grinning completely. That had worked out nicely. Perhaps, for now at least, Fret would not be so bothersome.

There was silence now, that seemed to stretch out forever. Left, they kept going left. Through cramped tunnels barely taller than Fret, to narrow passages Momchillo had to be pushed through, to wide passages that would not look out of place in a Palace- least of all one lined with the skulls of deadbeasts.

Contrary to Momchillo's expectations, Fret grew jumpier and jumpier the further on they went. The scuttling of a small pebble made the ferret leap into the air, his black and white fur standing on end. If he himself had not been on the verge of a panic attack, Momchillo would have laughed.

"You okay?" His voice was filled with genuine concern.

Fret gave the smallest of squeaks and a tiny nod.

"Let's- Let's get out of here." The mouse said with a swallow.

They continued with more caution. The cavern walls seemed to be closing in on them, and getting smaller and smaller. Panic was bubbling within both and Momchillo's movements were almost frantic now. Had he taken a wrong turn? Perhaps he'd taken a second left instead of a first? His heart was racing.

Now they turned left again, and squeezed through the smallest cavern yet. The walls of ice wrapped around him and squeezed him tight, like the coils of a serpent. He'd done something wrong, hadn't he? He had... he had... they were doomed. And it was his fault. It was all his fault.

Just as his ears began to droop in despair, the cavern came to an end. Momentarily, his worries vanished and the breath was taken from him.

It was a huge cavern. One that was reminiscent of Redwall's Great Hall, yet at the same time vastly different. The walls of ice around them shone with a brilliance to rival a thousand candles. At the center there lay a small pond, the water tinged green.

"Woah." The mouse's ears picked up the distant echo of his own voice as it bounced from corner to corner of the vast cavern.

"There's nothing to the left." Fret said quietly. "THERE'S NOTHING TO THE LEFT!" The ferret's paws were shaking madly, not from fear now, but from anger. "We're lost! We're doomed!" His voice, already loud, was magnified a hundredfold inside the walls of ice. "ALL BECAUSE YOU HAD A STUPID DREAM!" He was breathing deeply now, a whole cesspool of emotions boiling and tossing under him. Panic, rage, fear, anger, self-pity, regret... it was a mixture to make a murderer. "You had a stupid dream and you didn't listen to me when I told you it was stupid. 'Let's go left', 'Just keep going left', THERE IS NO LEFT!" He dragged his paws along his muzzle in despair. "We're doomed." His voice was strangely hollow. Shouting would give him no benefit, and he was too tired to cry. Not that he wanted to cry anyways, Momchillo would just make fun of him for it. And his last days alive would be spent listening to the stupid mouse mocking him.

"Relax Fret." The mouse was now holding a small rock in his paws. "I think I know _exactly_ why we were supposed to come here."

"Other than to starve to death?" The ferret spat.

"You'll get it in a bit." The mouse sat upon the ground and tugged his tail closer, so that the knot that tied mouse to ferret was within reach.

Fret's eyes widened in horror and instinctively, he pulled away. "No! Nonononono! You're not smashing my tail in!"

"Fret!" The mouse sounded exasperated. "I can't drag you all the way back to Mossflower." His voice morphed into one of calm explanation- Abbot Martin's on a good day. "Look, I'll just bring this rock down quickly, the ice'll break and we'll be free. I bet it doesn't even hurt!"

"It will hurt! It will hurt very much, and I've had enough pain to last a lifetime!" The ferret made to turn around, tripped over his own tail and landed on the ground.

Momchillo, no longer as worried as before, laughed. It was not a cruel laugh, and not something he would have done if he could help it. It was just... there hadn't been much to laugh at in the past few weeks.

Fret whimpered, and brought his paws to his face. Pathetic, why was he always so pathetic and clumsy and... always at the worst times. "You just said you'd listen to me! Y-you _promised_."

That made Momchillo pause. The mouse sighed. "Fret... You're right. You're right and we're lost and it's all my fault. Now, you can pick an exit."

A tiny sigh of relief escaped the ferret, who swiveled around to find something they could both fit through. "That tunnel doesn't look half-ba-AWAWAWAW!" Instinctively, the ferret went for his tail. It was, thankfully, whole. Yet at the same time it hurt worse than Hellgates. It was the kind of throbbing pain found only on the most uncomfortable of bruises.

Momchillo was on his feetpaw now. His own tail hurt very much, but he did not complain. It was a necessary evil and besides, the feeling of his tail whipping freely back and forth behind him again was worth it. Or at least it was, until Fret started complaining.

"You promised!" He snapped.

"Sorry Fret." The mouse turned around to find the ferret glaring at him skeptically. "I _am_ sorry. But we have to be realistic. I am a pragma-"

"You're a bully." The ferret snapped. "But no matter _how_ much you pick on _me, I'm_ the bully, _I'm_ the wrong one, _I'm_ the vermin."

"The difference Fret, is that what I just did is for the good of both of us. Stabbing me wouldn't have helped much-"

"No! Stop! Stop blaming _me!_ "

"Then don't blame _me!_ "

The pair growled at each other, paws clenched. Then the noise came, a low hiss that made them stop and shiver suddenly.

"Did you hear that?" Fret was quivering, his paws no longer clenched, but desperately trembling. His voice was barely a squeak, and yet nevertheless Momchillo's sensitive ears picked up the sound.

He did the smallest of nods, and both remained shaking in silence. There was no noise and the quiet stretched out into eternity. Then the hiss returned, louder this time, and closer.

The mouse was not sure when they had started hugging, but was suddenly aware that they were each holding the other as firmly as possible. Not that that helped. Fear crept through every inch of their forms and filled them up, all the way from their flattened ears to their tails, intertwined for comfort both needed yet neither could give.

And then there was the loudest hiss yet, and the great, ugly head of a snake, it's scales a beautiful, shimmering white, slithered free of an icy cavern above the terrified two.

Momchillo did not remember everything clearly. He knew that with speed neither could hope to match, the snake's ugly head shot forwards. Perhaps Fret had pulled him out of the way. Perhaps he had pulled Fret out of the way. Perhaps they had both done it. Yet somehow, the reptile missed and hit the ice. Neither really cared, or noticed. All they knew was that a second later they were hurtling away. The mouse was unsure whether they were screaming or not. His mouth was open, but the only sound he could hear was the mad beating of his own heart.

All instructions were forgotten. Going left or right no longer mattered, so long as it put some distance between them and their certain death. Their paws pounded like pistons as they shot through the ice. Adrenaline rushed through him, like overflowing milk, making him race at speeds he had either never achieved or had ever needed to reach.

Then Fret slipped, and his rodent heart missed a beat. The snake lunged, but the ferret's momentum and the cold ice slid him _just_ out of reach. To Momchillo's immense relief the ferret was back to running in mere moments.

Surely this was not their end. It couldn't be, for why else would he have dreamt of coming here. Unless Fret was right and it had just been a stupid dream. One that had doomed them both.

Then he slipped and was sliding along the ice. In a sudden, mad panic, he managed to scramble forwards, not even sure where he was going. He did not stop his desperate racing for anything. Not to notice the sudden darkness of the particular tunnel he'd entered. Not to notice that he was heading up something. Not even to notice that the snake was no longer chasing after him.

What he did notice, after his panic had subsided, was that he was _tired_. His limbs were aching in pain, and now that he was no longer running on adrenaline, literally and figuratively, he was all out of fight. The mere thought of getting up from where he lay was torment. His heart pattered like a vicious drum that would not cease it's beating. He was hungry. He was cold. He was thirsty. And he was so, so tired...

It was with a jolt that he remembered Fret, and suddenly the adrenaline returned. His heartbeat shot up, faster and more violently than ever. "FRET!" His voice was shrill with panic, and echoed around him- as if underlining his loneliness. He shot to his feetpaws and searched around him. The ferret was nowhere to be seen. He heard something, the definite hiss of a serpent, and something else. A whimper that was all too familiar, and shook him to the very core.

His heart racing he shot forwards through the tunnel, and came to a halt at the mouth of a tunnel, one suspended several feet off the ground. His heart stopped and his eyes widened in horror.

Fret was frozen in place, unable to move beyond the heart-rending quivering of his black and white form. His eyes were wide and wet, yet fixed in the gaze of the serpent, which advanced ever-so-slowly towards him. The ferret's back was against a wall, and the tunnel was too narrow for him to somehow get around the snake.

He was not surprised to find tears were trailing down his cheeks. As much as they bickered, all the anger and resentment... they had grown up together. They had been classmates, neighbors... The mouse remembered vividly that they had once played together every day. Him and Fret and Matiya and Grollo. That had been a long time ago, yet the memories came flooding in. Every time they'd try and fail to pillage the kitchens. All the clever plans they would spend most of the day disagreeing over, only for whatever they did try to fail. All the times they had played Hide and Seek, only for Fret to be scolded for getting himself filthy by vanishing up a chimney. All the times they had come crashing into some poor beast while they chased one another around.

Yet Grollo was gone. Matiya was dead. And Fret... was about to be lunch. And it was his fault. It was all his fault.

His ears fell and his face contorted horribly. He could barely see anything from all the wetness in his eyes. Not like this... it couldn't end like this. He wanted to shout something, anything. But what? Fret could not run and shouting at him to do so would only make him feel worse. He wanted to apologize. He should have listened. It was a stupid dream, and a stupid idea and... Fret was going to die.

"What'sssss wrong? Why sssssssssssso sssssssssssssscared?" The great, white serpent came to a halt in front of the poor, frightened mustelid, it's face curled into a cruel smile. "I can ssssssssssssee it, you're sssssssssssshivering. I can sssssssssmell it, you're ssssssssweating. I can hear it. Your heartssssssss beating. Don't be ssssssssssssscared. Everything will be fine."

The snake's eyes bore into the ferret's, and the eyes seemed to be changing colour. Once icy blue, then a darker shade and darker still, till the eyes were black as night.

Momchillo watched on. Not that he wanted to see Fret's demise, yet there was no taking his eyes away from it.

Fret stopped shivering suddenly. His body seemed to relax, ever-so-slightly. His eyelids drooped. And then the snake struck, and with a sob Momchillo managed to pull away.

His paws were clamped over his face and his legs gave out from under him. Fret, Fret was dead. Just like every other beast he had ever been friends with. And yet there was something more horrible about this. This was his fault. He had gone and convinced, or rather, forced, his companion into this. This horrible fate. He doubted anyone deserved to be eaten alive- least of all someone he had spent so many seasons laughing alongside.

 _"You're a bully!"_ The ferret's words echoed throughout the young mouse's head. Every argument, every snap, every conversation- all at once.

 _"It's alright for you, because you're a mouse! When we- If we ever get back to Redwall you'll be welcomed home! I'm not welcome anywhere! And for what? Because of my temper? My 'bad-temper'? Or because I'm not an abbeybeast? Because I-I-I chose to be bad? Because I l-lie and s-snap and-"_

 _"You promised!"_

 _"Ferret soup? That's bad even by your standards. And you won't have to. I'm coming too!"_

 _"I'm sorry! I'm sorry! I'm sorry! I'm sorry!" He rocked back and forth desperately. Tears were running down the side of his face, like raindrops on a window._

"I'm sorry too Fret." His voice was barely audible. A squeak that could not begin to think about spreading it's echo.

And now... Now Momchillo was alone.

Suddenly, there was a tremendous crash. A horrible crunch. And the whole underworld of ice seemed to shake and shiver, like some great beast that had been dealt a sound.

Momchillo peaked out from around his tunnel, and felt his hopes lift. The snake lay motionless, save for it's writhing tail. A humongous bolder lay on top of it's lower neck. And just one swallow shy of vanishing were a pair of weakly-kicking feetpaws.

"Fret!" It was foolish of him to rise so quickly. Balance was lost in favour of exhaustion and the mouse teetered over the edge. He landed on the smooth scales of the dying serpent and scrambled to his feet. Racing along it's long form and climbing over the boulder Momchillo found the snake. It's eyes stared into space, a familiar brown colour. But it's eyes were the least of Momchillo's concerns. And first amongst them was Fret the ferret.

Grabbing the mustelid by his feetpaws Momchillo pulled with all his might, until Fret came free of the jaws of death with a gasp. The ferret's attempts at refilling his lungs were abruptly cut short by the mouse that hugged him.

"Oh Fret! I'm so, _so_ sorry! _I-I-I'msogladyou'realive!_ "

With another gasp Fret managed to pull free. He slid to the ground, panting. He looked alright, save for the mess that was his slime-covered fur. His eyes were filled with worry, but as soon as he had recovered some breath they shrunk back into his signature scowl.

"Martin the Warrior, eh? Every left turn, eh? Nothing's going to kill me, eh? We won't get lost, eh?"

The mouse raised his paws in defense. "I'm sorry Fret. I- you have no idea how sorry I am- I d-didn't want. I didn't want any of- I-I-I'm-"

"Save your breath! You're just going to keep saying that until you need me to do something- then when I say I don't want to do it, you're going to make me do it anyways! I-I and when I'm sorry-" His voice cracked slightly. "When I-"

"Fret! I'm sorry! Okay? I mean it! I'm not lying, I-"

Fret smacked him. His claws did not dig deep, but blood still dripped from the cuts. "You have _no idea_ , how _long_ I've wanted to do that for!"

Momchillo did not mind the pain, he'd had worse bee stings. "I get you're mad-"

"Mad? Mad! I WAS ALMOST A BLOODY LUNCH!"

Bloody lunch. Bloody lunch. Bloody lunch. The words bounced from cavern to cavern, like a ball being passed from paw to paw.

There was a silence, wherein all that was heard was Fret's panting. Then, all of a sudden, Momchillo laughed. He had no idea why he did it. There was nothing funny about what had just happened. Was it relief? Was it meanness? It did not last very long, and left as abruptly as it had come. But by the time it was over Fret looked more hurt than Momchillo had ever seen him and guilt made his ears droop.

The mouse slid down on the ice so that he sat next to the ferret.

"If it's any consolation. I think you'd have given it indigestion."

Fret glared at him, and for a second it looked like he was about to lash out again.

"But as fun as that would be. I'm glad you're alive. You don't have to believe me, but I _am_ sorry."

Fret's glare seemed to melt away, but the ferret still turned away from him with a skeptical 'humph'.

"Hahahahaha! _Best bait_ in seasons!" A new voice made both children stare at the bolder that had saved them both. And from behind it popped the white old face of a grinning stoat. "Been 'untin' this beauty fer _ever!_ " At the looks on their faces he cocked his head slightly. "Ye looked older from up above."

* * *

 _Footnote: Snakes are basically the dragons of Redwall. They're often used in these kind of caverns throughout the series and I figured that I wanted to write one (if only for the S's). Of course at the same time I didn't want this to just come out of nowhere- so there was some... dare I call it foreshadowing? Well there was Clogg's story from Chapter 32 and there were all the skeletons littering this place so yeah... not out-of-nowhere but hopefully somewhat surprising. Or rather... intense.  
_

 _So yeah, I left you guys on another cliffhanger... Don't worry, they should be... mostly fine. The expression is 'better the devil you know' but stoats are more manageable than snakes... generally._

 _For now we shall be leaving Fret and Momchillo behind and heading back South to catch up with one character I don't know if you've forgotten or not..._


	35. The Mouserat

**A/N: Dear Abrahem,**

 **I'm glad you're enjoying this fic. Thanks again for the nice reviews. I can see what you're getting at with Tuco and Sharpfur- but at the same time Sharpfur is a whole lot more bark than bite. So while yes, he can stomach the _idea_ of flaying Hawthorn alive and rolling her in salt for laughing at him (irrespective of whether or not he's grown attached to her and Grollo) doing it is not something he wouldn't be okay with. Even killing to survive- as was the case with the cannibals and pirates, isn't something he's going to boast about or be proud of. So I do get your meaning but also want to point out that Sharpfur is less ruthless than 'hang yourself at gunpoint' tuco. **

**What fanfics to reccomend... Hmmm...**

 **Well you seem okay with reading about the adventures of anthropomorphic animals so:**

 **First of all, myself _(_ _yes I would stoop so low)_ I write a lot and have got a pretty wide range of stories to choose from. Surreal horror, sad endings, laugh out loud fics... It's more or less all there. I would reccomend starting with... The Feral Islands if you're familiar with Kung Fu Panda, if not try the Twelve Great Labours of Hercules. **

**And so as not to seem too selfish or bigheaded I will point you towards a few other authors:**

 **Berserker88 and Mind Jack respectively. Both deal with ridiculously quirky characters, and while their writing is generally more 'haha' than 'drama' they have got a bunch of really neat twists and when they do decide to release the feels... Well they do it well...**

 **From Mind Jack's profile I would recommend Silence of the Hare because it's a) his most written story and b) entertaining. It's not quite done and currently on hiatus and is going to (eventually) get remade but he has been busy which leads me to...**

 **From Berserker88 I would recommend you start with Born to Be Wilde both because it's on-going and probably his best work so far but also because it's just plain good. Note I recommend this not (entirely) due to my friendship with the author(s) but because it's just plain good. If it's too long for you and you'd prefer getting eased in, try something small-er like On Their Own. Easy-to-follow uncomplicated story that just so happens to be entertaining.**

 **I think that's probably enough for now. If you want more than I'm more than happy to share but if you're going through all of the above (plus the rest of mentioned author's list of creations) I think you should be kept busy for a little while (which should also make the waits between updates much more bearable).**

 **I gotta also point out to you the advantages of having an account- TLDR it's just easier to keep track of different stories if you follow them rather than having to continuously check for updates (especially if you follow a lot of them). But I don't want to keep nagging you about it and I don't particularly mind responding to your reviews here (the story/author recommendations are for everyone and anyone interested by the way)**

 **Also, since this note is already long enough to get lost in, Black and White has now passed the 100K word milestone... which is neat.**

 **And now say hello to someone you may or may not have forgotten existed (I _kinda_ did). Also please note that this chapter takes place not-in-the-present. This is a catch-up on Grey Claw and this one takes place a bit after we left him. Before or during the timeskip.  
**

Being a mouse was _hard_. Or rather being a rat pretending to be a mouse was hard. Grey Claw honestly had no idea how he was doing it, but so far he- or rather the Skipper- had managed to convince an entire holt of otters that he was a mouse.

Jack and Tibbers had liked the idea very much, probably because it meant they wouldn't have to explain what they were doing with a rat to begin with. And as Jack assured him, it would make fitting in at Salamandastron much easier.

"Well it's bally hard to trust your kind, don't cha know? Rats and hares have fought tooth and claw for longer than we've both been alive and I don't think a lot of the older hares would fancy having the companionship of one. And ahem, some of the younger... recruits. Just act like a mouse and call yourself something mousey!"

"But I don't know any mouse names! And I don't want to go to Salamandastron, Sharpfur said vermin all die there. And Sharpfur said that there's a badger there, and everybeast knows badgers are vicious an' bloodthirsty and like using our tiny skulls to spoon sugar into their tea. Sharpfur said so anyways."

"Try Bartholomew." Offered Tibbers. The shrew was looking a lot less pale now that he had both decent food and rest and well... a healer.

"Or Berty! Don't worry Grey, everything'll be swell when we get there. As it happens my old pops was rather high in the chain of command- wouldn't surprise me if I could just admit you're a rat and no questions asked."

"No! Nonononono! The Long Patrol _hate_ rats." Otters, the Guosim and the mad hares of the Long patrol- all three he and Sharpfur had been forbidden from approaching.

"Well they don't hate _you_ good fellow, they've never met you. I have and say that you're not half-bad, honestly speaking. Besides, it's not like we don't have our reasons to ahem, dislike your form of living."

"And badgers can't be so bad." Tibbers was nodding in agreement. "Oh yes, there was one at Redwall and she didn't seem likely to eat our skulls."

"But you're not a rat!" Whined Greyclaw, clutching at his ears and rocking to and fro.

"And neither are you." Jack reminded him with a wink. "You're Bartholomew Berty Bally Bandana, the mouse."

"I'm Barsolomew Barty Bully Banana?"

"See! You're already getting the hang of it, wot."

"Alright... Banana... my name is Banana."

"That's the ticket! Now, let's think of what we're going to say." He gave both companions a conspiratorial waggle of his eyebrows. "The two of us were just the Dishonest Bunch's _latest_ victims-"

"Guests-"

"You on the other hand." The hare poked Greyclaw in the chest. "Have been their captive for as long as you can remember. You don't know where you're from, nor do you know anything that is not somehow related to verminkind- but still you have managed to maintain the good teachings of your sweet mother-"

"Mother said to avoid the Long patrol at all costs!"

"Of your _mouse_ mother."

"But she was a weasel-"

"But they don't know that and cannot know that no matter what, wot. Remember, you're _not_ adopted."

"What?"

"Wot."

"Alright." Greyclaw nodded in understanding. "So I'm supposed to pretend that I'm a mouse that was raised like a rat that's not a rat pretending to be a mouse?"

"Bingo." Jack patted him jovially on the head. "Now, let's practice. So Banana, where're you from?"

There was a long pause.

"Banana." Jack's voice was slightly more stern this time around.

"Oh right, I'm a banana, yes. Um, I don't know."

"Why do you not know?"

"Er- is it because I only remember the Honest Bunch?"

"Is it?"

"It is?"

"See Grey, you're really getting the hang of this mouse-business, wot."

"Okay. I'm Banana. I _am_ Banana."

"Exactly! Now remember Grey, if ye ever feel like yer going to get caught- don't panic. Me and Tibbers are here to help you fool the wool, wot. But if yer ever caught unawares, change the subject."

"To what?"

"Anything! Anything except vermin and yourself. Talk about the weather. The weather always works."

Greyclaw nodded. "Okay."

* * *

Several days went by and Grey's cover had yet to slip. It was probably because the Skipper doted on him so much that nobeast dared point out anything discrepant about 'Banana'. And there were many. Now that his body was not in mortal peril the monsters were all in his mind, and when he went to sleep they crawled out the corners of his head and filled his mind with darkness and blood and Sharpfur screaming. It was lucky Tibbers and Jack had warmed up to him, or else he would have been caught by now. The hare in particular was good at covering for him. Once Angus and Andrew, a pair of identical twins, had been probing into his name.

"So, Banana,"

"What exactly is a banana?"

"I heard it's a yellow fruit-"

"Yer thinkin' of the orange one mate."

"Oh, right, so banana's red?"

Grey opened his mouth to say something, but found his throat filled with air. No words could find their path to freedom and his heart pattered into a panic.

"No. Banana's purple. Oranges are orange."

"But he's not yellow, orange, red or purple."

"It's why we're asking him numpty."

"Don't call me numpty, _numpty!_ "

"Numpty!" Shouted Jack, throwing a bucket of water (bucket and all) at the two. Grey breathed a sigh of relief as the hare was promptly chased by the inseparable pair.

For now he was safe...

But nothing kept the nightmares at bay. He woke up earlier than the rest, covered in cold sweat and breathing deeply.

There was a storm that night, outside and inside. The wind howled and and cried like a swarm of deadbeasts. Grey could do nothing but shiver beneath his blanket, whimpering as in his mind's eyes Sharpfur was hitting him. But it was not the usual smack of annoyance, or the little weasel testing his punches. No, Sharpfur was furious with him. The little weasel was so much bigger now, and spared no inch of him. Long red claws drew gashes of crimson along his soft flesh. They dug deep, deeper than Sharpfur had ever poked. And in the background the noises of his family shouted encouragement. Silvertongue was singing ominously. Blizzard, Heratrip and Redtail were giving cruel, painful suggestions and Cheese was chewing through his tail. His little sisters were at his feet, peeling the skin off with their little claws. And Sickletail was cooking chunks of his side in a soup and forcing him to drink. The liquid burned his throat. Silvertongue's voice rose in pitch and there was a grave crescendo as Sharpfur went for his dirk.

A flash of lightning made the rat squeak into life. He was dripping in sweat and was shaking uncontrollably. Try as he might he could not push the thoughts of his nightmare out of his mind. His throat was uncomfortably dry and Greyclaw decided he needed a drink- anything to keep him from thinking about Sharpfur's claws digging deep.

He shivered and padded over to a barrel, only to find a small, wooden cup waiting for him. He looked up and found the Skipper smirking slightly.

Greyclaw accepted the drink gratefully and took huge gulps. Unfortunately, he drank too quickly and had to cough.

The otter gave a hearty laugh and pulled the little rat next to him. "Trouble sleeping."

Grey nodded timidly. As frightening as the huge otter was, with all the battle scars and his booming voice and all his stories filled to the brim with dead vermin... he was nice.

"Ah, I get them all the time." For a second his mind seemed to drift. "Say Berty... how was it like livin' with vermin?"

"Well... not bad."

The otter raised an eyebrow and Greyclaw's heart went into a frenzy.

"I mean they didn't kill me, or torture me or anything like that. I'm still alive, eh?"

His smile returned slightly. "Ye got lucky." Then his face fell into a frown. "Lost a couple of mates of mine to vermin." There was a long drawn out pause, wherein Grey had no idea what he was supposed to say. "One of 'em looked like ye, you know." He said suddenly, turning to the rat besides him and staring with interest.

"Small wood, eh? Hahaha." Grey was growing more and more nervous by the second. He did not want to be caught in the act of lying by this vicious killer of vermin.

"I... don't suppose... your mother found you in a river?"

For half a second he couldn't breathe. He _had_ been found in a river. How did he know about Sickletail? "Nope! My mother was a mouse and er- she was my mother." He remembered what Jack had told him and repeated with interest. "I'm _not_ adopted."

The Skipper chuckled, but failed to hide a hint of disappointment that lingered in his eyes. He patted Grey softly on the back. "Ah well. The woods aren't so small after all. But still..."

"Mr Skipper?" _Change the subject._ Jack-is-lucky had told him to change the subject. "The er- the weather's not nice today, is it?"

The Skipper raised an eyebrow, before he began to shake with laughter. "The weather- Ha! Course it's not nice."

"W-what I meant to say was er- what's the difference between a rat and a mouse?" He blurted out the first question that popped into his head, and continued with his speech. "B-because you said that- that any idiot can tell the difference but... I don't know many- _any_ mice and, and I want to um, not mistake them for a rat."

It took a short amount of time for the Skipper's face to split into a grin, but when it did it was wide and his teeth were white. "To be honest, there's not much to tell 'em apart _physically._ Rats are generally bigger, got longer snouts see-" He said, tapping Greyclaw's snout. "An' they're dirtier, like when we first found ye. The untrained eye would have said ye were a rat- but like I said, ye look like me old messmates- and none of _them_ were rats I can say for certain. Never had a rat on this ship before- and I never will."

Greyclaw swallowed.

"I s'ppose the real difference is the way they act. Rats are vermin. Mice are not. It's not hard to tell 'em apart when ye meet 'em."

"W-why? W-what do vermin act like?"

Skipper patted him on the head. "Ye'll have nightmares again. Go to sleep Berty. It's late. It's dark. Yer..." The otter unexpectedly hugged him, and squeezed tight. "Yer too young to know."

 _I think I already do..._


	36. The Mouserat II

**ALN: Dear Abrahem,**

 **Yes, Salamandastron shall be... Interesting. As you shall find out for yourself soon enough. Yes, the Skipper has probably not seemed like so nice a fellow up until now- but this is deliberate. We see different angles of different characters depending on who's point of view we see them from. At least... That's what I'm going for... You'll see why eventually...**

 **As for Tuco and Sharpfur, I get you, I really do. If Sharpfur had been older then I suspect he'd have been almost exactly like him. Though I think it's pretty easy to forget that these guys are 10-12-ish.**

 **Regarding being a furry: Well I believe what a "furry" actually is, is debatable. If you listen to the internet, you'd think being a furry is all about raving to EDM as you vape inside your fursuit. Also everybody I talk to seems to think that all furries are gay... so there's a lot of misconceptions surrounding furries at large.**  
 **For me, none of that is true (except I do like me some EDM), although maybe once a year I'll get the crazy idea to save up for a sick dragon fursuit... and then a minute later I slap myself and say "You idiot - that's a terrible idea!"**  
 **The way I think furry should be defined is simply by an interest in anthropomorphic animals in it's various art forms. I think a vocal minority of furries cause a lot of negative stereotypes... to the point that I'm not comfortable discussing this interest of mine in public or even with some of my close friends. And yeah, I consider myself one, but only by my definition. By extension, if I applied my definition to other people, it would include most people in the fandom...**

 **I owe the above definition to The Dragon Chronicle.**

 **Dear Lord demon (I love your name, lol)**

 **Fun fact, that was one of the ideas I was working on in the early stages of planning this fic. Not necessarily an army of mythological creatures, I was thinking more in line with bloodthirsty lizards. And yes the woodlanders and vermin would have banded together against this great threat. However- that was long scrapped so do not expect an armada of lizards to all-of-a-sudden pop up. And it's a bit late for Savages too I'm afraid (though... perhaps woodlanders and vermin shall band together...)**

 **Though I do plan on (one day, many seasons from now no doubt) making a Halloween Special (Black, White and Smothered In Pumpkin) I won't say too much about it purely because you'd have to know how this story ends _first_. But perhaps... There will be space for a goblin or two...**

 **Regarding Greyclaw's parentage. I don't think it's wise to say yes or no at this point. I _will_ say that I like the way you read. But at the same time the evidence you have provided _could_ be...*drumroll*... a Grey coincidence. (I'm so funny...)  
**

 **And now, without further ado, part two of catching up with Greyclaw.**

The closer they came to Salamandastron, the warmer the climate became, till all snow was left behind and they were sailing through coastlines with sandy beaches and the swath of the ocean.

The closer they came to Salamandastron the more worried Greyclaw became- and the more worried he became the more he slipped up.

"We did it!" Angus cried, lifting a bowl of steaming hotroot high into the air- where the sun could bask it in bright light.

"Took us all morning-"

"But we've _mastered_ hotroot!"

The pair slapped tails and, beaming, approached the nearest member of their holt- who just so happened to be Grey Claw.

"Here Berty-"

"Banana-"

"Bartholomew-"

"Have some soup!"

Grey, who had been absorbed in thoughts of his old life, was reeled back into a reality where a pair of grinning otters- fangs gleaming- were threatening him with what looked like steaming blood.

"I'm not a rat!" He shrieked, scrambling backwards as quickly as he could.

The twins gave each other the most confused look ever.

Worse still was that the closer they came to Jack's home the more relaxed the hare became. And the more relaxed he was, the slower he reacted to Grey's failings. He spoke often of Salamandastron, yet this only filled the young rat with dread. From all he'd gathered it was a militaristic woodlander stronghold built into a volcano... rats did not seem welcome.

"Supposing I don't belong." He had said to the Skipper one night they had shared in sleeplessness. "Supposing Salamaderastron... isn't... Supposing I don't fit in with the... martial... hares... or the badgers and their... well their-"

Skipper snorted and patted him on the head. "Berty. Badgerlord Umber is a personal friend of mine and has been for many a season. Anywhere I'm welcome, you're welcome. As for being martial-" He poked the rat's round stomach. "Lots of beasts aren't. Besides, it's just for the winter, after that you could stay with us. Or if you prefer... maybe Redwall will take you in."

"B-but Redwall's haunted." Greyclaw blurted out. His heart shot into a panicked frenzy, but to his luck the Skipper laughed it off.

"Then stay here! I don't see what the problem is, really. You're mates with Jack and Tibbers. They'll look after you, and if they don't I will. Besides Salamandastron isn't really all that 'hard training' and the like. You're a guest, not a recruit."

The Skipper's assurances did little to dampen his doubts, but he clung to them like a lifeline. After all, he didn't really have a choice in the matter.

* * *

The day-or rather dusk- came sooner than he'd have liked, and it came with Jack's loud whoop of joy. For a beast with his ear-length it was surprising how inconsiderate he was when it came to the power of his voice. The otters landed their rafts and all set off for the fortress. Grey would have stayed behind as long as possible, but Jack had other plans. Taking rat and shrew by the paw he promptly raced all the way there, half-leading, half-dragging his hapless companions.

Worse still was what awaited the rat behind the gates. As if he'd been waiting for them, and he probably had, Badgerlord Umber was waiting for them.

Grey felt his whole form go limp and his ears droop. He had heard much of the fabled badgers- they were the stuff of nightmares and the bogeyman of all vermin tales. Yet there was something in the creature standing before him that Sick-Eyes' stories had never been able to describe. A kind of majesty. A kind of control. Power seemed to ooze from the large beast, it was evident in his wide arms and broad shoulders. His eyes did not glow red, as Sick-Eyes had always claimed. They were blue and filled with an old kind of wisdom, yet the smile upon his face was that of a younger beast. His clothes were plain, a simple robe of green- yet the beast would not look out of place in plated armour. His black and white fur was like that of a ferret's, yet at once so unlike a ferret's that it was entirely new to the young rat. The badger towered over them, like a second mountain, yet his shadow was a welcome relief from the hot sun.

All in all he was both terrified, and impressed. Dazed as he was, he barely heard the conversation.

"I was expecting you." The great beast was saying.

Jack, despite being from Salamandastron- and having seen the baderlord for most of his life, was as giddy as a school girl. "It must have been in a dream." He turned to Grey and Tibbers nodding madly. "Badgers are prophetic beasts, wot."

Grey felt himself going faint. If this badger was prophetic then he was doomed.

The badger rolled his eyes and with one paw fixed Jack's bobbing head in place. "No, I did not have any dreams. _You_ were due back several weeks ago- along with the other hares that went to celebrate." The young hare opened his mouth- but the badger held it shut. "I _know_ what happened because it was reported to me. From what I've heard you three were the only ones found."

The rest of the holt caught up by then, the Skipper ahead of the rest by a considerable margin- sporting a very wide grin.

Jack was quick enough to drag himself and his companions out of the way, for when otter and badger collided the very ground seemed to tremble. Angus and Andrew slunk next to hare, rat and shrew, looking eager. And the source of their eagerness became apparent within seconds.

"Say, old matey old pal-"

"Perhaps you would be so kind as to show us to the mess hall-"

"We're a bit hungry see-"

"It's dinnertime-"

"And these two-" One twin pointed a thumbclaw at the Badgerlord and Skipper- who were gripping each other hard enough to crush a lesser beast.

"Will be like that for seasons-"

"So you could save us all a lot of time and trouble-"

"If you just _lead the way._ "

Jack nodded in understanding. "Alright, wot. The mess hall it is!"

"M-maybe that's not such a good idea." Greyclaw pointed out, raising one meek paw. "I mean, we're not _all_ that hungry and besides..." He trailed off, unable to voice his deep-seated worries without giving himself away.

"Don't be daft Berty!"

"How could getting grub be a bad idea?"

The twins lifted the rat from one armpit each.

"B-b-b-but I'm not a rat." He squeaked in protest. But there was nothing he could do. He did not want to fall, and fall he would if he tried to run. Leaving the Skipper and the badger and the rest of the holt behind the four followed the proud hare through long, lantern-filled halls that were a deep, mesmerizing red. The likes of which Greyclaw had only seen on the Cursed Abbey's walls. The shadows bounced up and down, growing and shrinking as they walked forwards. The blackness cast cruel shapes and danced among the flames. Jack was skipping ahead, humming to a tune Grey did not know the words to. Tibbers was pulling up the rear, if only because he had to run to keep up with the larger mammal's strides.

The five came to a halt in front of a pair of great, gleaming wooden doors. Jack stopped humming, his paws shaking in anticipation as they reached towards a small knob. The hare's eyes were wide and a grin grew along his face. "It's been so long- I- I-"

"We're starving."

"Just open the door."

"D-don't open the door!"

But Grey's last plea was caught on deaf ears and the doors were opened wide. The rat was dropped softly to his feet and felt himself stiffen as all eyes turned towards the new arrivals. He raised a shaking paw and did the smallest of waves.

He was promptly lifted off his feetpaws, along with his companions, by a sea of shouting, clamoring over-excited hares. Terrified, and fearing that he would be sacrificed to the volcano there was nothing Grey could do but whimper. Not that it was heard even by the long ears of this new armada. Their were shouts of joy, elation, surprise- and in the case of the otter twins, hunger. There was a mad pounding that the rat was sure was his heart.

The group were deposited onto a bench, and were promptly assaulted with a volley of questions. The pounding grew ever stronger until it was all Grey could hear. The rat curled in on himself. Why couldn't it all just stop?

Then there was silence and the rat's eyes peaked open.

"Order! Order!" Shouted an overweight, red-in-the-face hare clad in more medals than Grey could count. He was holding a fat stump, which turned out to be the source of the pounding. "All of you back to your stations!"

"But sah!"

"We want to know what-"

"I said ORDER! You will all know what happened in due course of time, wot."

Many opened their mouths to protest, but the fat hare's stern gaze silenced them prematurely. Muttering mutinously the sea of long-eared rabbits scattered.

Then the fat hare sat down next to Jack, a wide grin on his face, and threw a chubby paw round the thinner hare's shoulder. "It's good to see you ole chap! Now tell us what happened! We heard you got captured by vermin- gave them a good one-two didn't you ole boy? All that training payed off, didn't it?"

The hares lucky enough to have been sitting around before the group's arrival, now leaned closer, desperate to hear every detail.

Angus and Andrew were oblivious to it all, and seemed to be having a pie-eating contest between them. Grey shook his head mournfully- they were both hopelessly slow.

"Well, perhaps captured is too much. We were ambushed, wot!" Jack cried, dramatically slamming the table for good measure. "As for training. Oh yes, very helpful. If it weren't for Tibbers and Grey here-" He pointed at the shrew and rat respectively. "I'd have drowned. And, with all due respect sah, I'd like to say that the handbook never properly explained how to handle an over-depressed rat, wot."

Grey, who had managed the courage to sip at a nearby glass of water, swallowed too quickly and began to cough. This had the unfortunate side-effect of attracting everybeast's attention. Which made him panic and cough harder. And soon his eyes were wet from all the force of his coughing.

"Of course, the rat died two seconds later so it wasn't too much trouble and er- this is Berty by the way. He's a _mouse,_ don'tcha know. And well, he was already the vermin's captive for as long as anybeast could remember. Don't mind him he's a gentle soul, wot. Real nice mouse he is."

"What were they like?" This new question was posed by a mouse. Her gaze was fierce with intent, and seemed fierce in general. There was a kind of fire in her eyes that Grey was worried would burn him to ashes.

"Not that bad." Tibbers chimed in, passing Greyclaw a piece of lettuce in an attempt to ward off any dangerous conversations.

"Well, they stunk, were rude and rather-" He noticed the mournful look in the rat's eyes and gave a little cough. "They stabbed Tibbers in the shoulder but patched it up quite well and well, Gr- _Berty-_ didn't suffer from lack of food, as you can all see." He smacked the rat hard on the back, producing another ill-advised coughing fit.

"You could use a bath Berty." The mouse said with a small frown that made Grey shudder. "And what's wrong with your teeth?"

Grey did not know how to reply and shrunk a little bit more.

"Yes Berty stinks." Tibbers snapped. "Get used to it, coz it takes more than soap to wash it off of him. We know, we've tried."

And with that the conversation strayed away from the rat. After a while, Grey grew comfortable enough to eat- and found that he was quite hungry.

And it was simply marvelous.

Hare's Pawspring Vegetable Soup, bubbling and spreading the vapors of sweet and sour vegetables in a mist that set the young rat to drooling. Crispy Cheese'n'Onion Hogbake, one bite was enough to make him shiver in spasms of ecstasy. Gourmet Garrison Grilled Leeks that he avoided like the plague. Stuffed Springtide Mushrooms,a recipe he would have to find ans show Sickletail. She loved mushrooms...

Yet nothing was better than the Strawberry pie. Thick and creamy jam, with a soft, slightly crunchy exterior. It was heaven, pure heaven. And again and again he wanted to dive in and lick at the jam, and break the crust and chew it- and he just realized that he was being watched.

Tibbers was staring at him from behind eyes crusted in fresh jam.

"Oh, sorry. I didn't mean to-" It was an innocent gesture- one common among vermin. His tongue passed across the shrew's face, wiping the jam away. Grey swallowed, and found even more creatures were staring at him. "Er- sorry?"

"It's... fine." Tibbers murmured, wiping away at the left-over saliva.

"Well that was weird." The Junior Corporal said, to general agreement.

Grey opened his mouth- but found no words could come out. He was panicking- and Jack noticed too.

"What a bally brilliant idea Berty!" Seizing the nearest strawberry pie the hare proceeded to launch it at the nearest hare.

The Junior Corporal was quick enough to duck- the approaching Skipper- who had just arrived- was not.

* * *

 _Footnote: Fun fact, I initially envisioned all of this subplot fitting into one chapter- hahahaha. So there's going to be a part three and four before we get to the current time plot-wise. Just goes to show I'm only human. I mean, you guys probably don't mind, but a better strategist could have positioned this inbetween other chapters. Still I don't think it's too jarring here..._

 _The Junior Corporal has been mentioned before- Jack was complaining about the lack of solutions to depressed rats._

 _This is probably going to be my last update of the year- so Happy New Year and hope you enjoyed._


	37. Rat Or Mouse?

**A/N: Sorry Mouserat fans, but this is the last chapter of Greyclaw you'll have in a while. I know I said there would be four but I decided to make this one a bit extra-long instead of stretching it out further than needed. Noone needs an Electric Bugaloo. It's time to head back North to Deathglare. We can't leave him in a barrel forever you know. Though we will be heading back south soon enough to rejoin these guys.**

 **Dear Abrahem,**

 **I'd say yes the Redwall books are pretty enjoyable at 17. Food porn is pretty prevelant but I avoid it generally since after twenty or so feasts it can get pretty repetitive and draggy. It's decently funny especially the little kids and some of the dialogue is pretty good too (I read them mostly for the character interactions to be honest) I am (eventually) going to read all the books (just so I can say I have done so) but I am a Redwall fanatic (sometimes). I reccomend you start with a 'good' book and a 'bad' book (generally those later in the publishing order) just so you know how… inconsistent the books can be in quality. Though I think they're all good some are just 'good' and some are 'great'.**

 **I like Martin the Warrior a lot, but found Outcast of Redwall somewhat lackluster, so I'd reccomend those two to get an overall feel of the franchise. Since this story is a deconstruction you don't necessarily get the same vibe I think and I'd say that's because Redwall as a whole is very clear cut with it's good vs evil and lacks my depth of moral ambiguity (not to toot my own horn or anything).**

 **Of course just because there isn't much moral ambiguity doesn't mean it's bad. On the contrary I think it gives them a very unique feel. It's very different from most novels published nowadays.**

 **Now onto the chapter …**

* * *

A week had passed since Greyclaw's arrival in the pit of hares. So far he was still Berty, but tension was mounting around him and threatened to squash him flat. And he had enough difficulty avoiding the Badgerlord's feetpaws already!

Sleep had not yet embraced him and it was starting to show in large bags around his eyes. Angus and Andrew had advised a tonic- but he had decided against following their advice. From what he'd heard them talking they had once slain a stupid ferret (they had even claimed that if one looked closely enough you could find the last claw marks of their dreadful opponent on one of their cheeks), he did not doubt their willingness to use poison on a rat. And even if they did think he was a mouse (unlikely) wasn't poison-in-the-soup a classic prank?

To compensate for the extreme pressure building up around him he ate twice as much as usual- and usually he ate more than Sharpfur. Of course this only further ostracized him, hares loved their food and with a whole holt to feed there was less to go around- it did not help that the wonderful fare- their breakfast's alone would be called a feast by sane vermin everywhere- mesmerized him. Tibbers had taken to sitting a considerable distance away from him ever since their arrival for fear of the rat's tongue.

Of course, the shrew only abandoned him at mealtimes- Jack had done so altogether. Not out of spite or because (like Sharpfur) he was dead, but because he was still a hare of the Long Patrol determined to earn his badges. And for that he had to do extensive training.

Grey had watched him at it, and while the young hares did not have the experience and discipline of their seniors (creatures Greyclaw was determined to avoid as much as possible) they were just as determined and almost as talented, if not moreso.

This was not the casual afternoon dueling Threeclaw had done with all of his older brothers, this was _training_. The stoat had never instilled in them different battle stances though he knew many himself. He had never taught them teamwork, or formation-fighting and probably didn't know half the weapons the hares used. He had never explained the importance of trust, and what could be achieved by standing united. He had taught them how to survive, and now the only beast he hadn't taught was the only one not dead.

Life was ironic like that. Of all the Honest Bunch he had stuck out the most. He was not a rat like Gulash, big and brawny and bad-tempered. He was not good at insults, nor was he good at fighting. He had always been soft and sensitive, and remembered painfully all the times he had broken into tears over something that was not meant the way he'd heard it.

Perhaps that was why he'd been dumped into the river. Somebeast had gotten tired of his crying.

He had never given them much thought. After all he'd had Sharpfur to cling to ever since. But Sharpfur was gone, and his mind raced back to them.

Had they known he could swim? Had they just abandoned him or tried to drown him too? Both were horrible, but one was unforgivable. Or had it been an accident? Had they just dropped their baby and watched it get swept into the paws of a loving mother?

They couldn't have been watching if it was an accident. They'd have asked for him back... Unless they hadn't wanted him…

"Hey Berty."

Greyclaw was brought back to reality by Victoria. She was the sole mouse of the volcano, having been adopted many seasons prior. No older than him, and reaching no higher than his neck, yet she was a force to be reckoned with. He'd seen her on the practice yard obliterating waves of potatoe sack dummies painted to have snarling fangs and bloodshot eyes. Vermin. He'd watched her stab and slice and rip eyeballs (little pins) off her opponents with speed and swiftness that would have promoted the three W's had he still been Greyclaw.

But he was Berty. And Berty was a mouse and although he did not share her passion for dead vermin, and smelled awful and was plain weird… he was her friend.

"Hullo." He replied, swallowing. Tibbers was nowhere in sight and Jack was probably training. He would have no back-up for this conversation.

"Another nightmare?" She asked knowingly, noting the bags on his eyes.

He nodded, rubbing at them awkwardly untill they began to wetten.

"Happens a lot after trauma." The mouse said knowingly. "I used to have them all the time after… when I got here."

"Is this place haunted?" He asked cautiously. He wasn't entirely sure whether or not mice believed in ghosts, Fret hadn't and he was raised by mice. But didn't everybeast know it was ghosts that haunted and stole sweet sleep away?

Victoria shook her head. "Honestly Berty do you hear yourself? You say the silliest things sometimes. Course it's not haunted or else we wouldn't live here. Anyhow ghosts aren't real."

Ah, so mice didn't believe in ghosts. But hadn't there been-

"Martin the Warrior's just a fairy tale before you bring that up." She said sharply. "Wars weren't won by ghosts. It was real, hard-working soldiers what won our battles with vermin."

The way she said that last word, a mix between a hiss and a snap and full to the brim with loathing, made Grey flinch.

"I'm sorry. I shouldn't have brought that up." She added. Tibbers had spread the rumour that vermin had tortured Grey (or rather Berty) in unspeakable ways, this was to avoid lengthy conversations on the topic and also to cover-up on his mishaps.

"It's fine. I don't really mind. I mean…" He trailed off. Victoria would have killed him had he still been Greyclaw. Three W's be damned. "Not all vermin are bad though, are they? I mean, it wouldn't be so bad to have a vermin as a friend, would it?"

Her face hardened- it was like watching water turn to ice. "They are and it would. And you should know better than anybeast else."

"But… have you ever met a vermin?"

She frowned at him for a second then broke into a smile. For all her harshness and dummy disemboweling she did have a very nice smile. And her teeth were very white. And were exactly the same size. It made him feel distinctly unmouse-like. He looked stupid when he smiled- Sharpfur had always said that.

"You're too good Berty. Or maybe you're just mad. After all those monsters did to you you still try and find some good in them." She put a paw around his neck and the proximity as well as the compliment made him blush. Despite the fact that he was a monster. "I know these things are complicated sometimes. But for me trusting vermin is stupid and risky. They… well they're the reason I'm an orphan and you're an orphan. And from one orphan to another, stay away from vermin. They'll act nice and sweet to get close to you, but one day they'll rise up all big and ugly like the monsters they are, and you had best have your wits about you then, lest you want a knife in your back."

Grey Claw swallowed.

"Don't worry though. I'll be there for you. When the monsters come for your chubby belly just run to Vicky and she'll send them running."

Or to Hellgates. "Did that happen to you then? Did the vermin that killed your parents come in all sweet-like?" It was probably what they would think of him, if he was ousted. That it had all been an act. Every kind favour. Every compliment. Discomfort grew inside him and he found himself scanning the beaches for Tibbers.

"Well… no." She was frowning now. "I just know that one day my mother told me to hide and I did. And I heard lots of screaming but she told me not to come out for anything. And when I did come out… there was blood on the floor and lots of it. And pawprints leading to the beach. And I followed them and I found a ship and there were vermin on board. And they… well they were eating my mum and dad."

Greyclaw felt dizzy, disgusted, sick and guilty all at once. Victoria was gazing into the sea, watching the waves as if under a spell.

"I'm sorry." He said in a very small voice. He should never have opened his fat mouth.

"You didn't do it, did you?" She asked with a small, sad smile.

Grey shook his head in earnestness. The Honest Bunch had never stooped so low. "Of course not! I would never- it's not-"

Victoria was laughing now, and pinched his cheek. "I know it wasn't you silly. You're not a rat. Anyhow those monsters are all dead. Not long after I found them the Long Patrol did, and they didn't just cry in the sand."

Greyclaw shivered as he imagined the hares coming down upon the pack of pirates with bloody retribution.

"Say Berty, I've got the day off, but if you want we could do some training together. Just me and you. I could teach you how to fight."

Grey swallowed. "Fight?"

"Yeah! Here come on, it'll be fun." Without waiting for his garbled reply she seized his paw and half-lead, half-dragged him towards the training dummies. Angus and Andrew were failing marvelously at hitting a particularly fat one. The face painted on it slightly resembled Gulash that one time Silvertongue had made him drink hotroot.

"Berty, come to test your worth, eh?" Andrew started, mostly to cover up a particularly bad shot on Angus' part.

"I guess." He said, tracing little circles in the ground with his feetpaw.

"Don't worry, we'll make a soldier of you yet." Angus said with an encouraging whack of his tail.

"Humph. Learn it yourselves before you teach." Victoria snapped, hitting the great big target square on the nose with a gentle flick of her sling.

Both otters went red, but made no further comment.

Victoria frowned. "A strong throw but a bit off the mark. I'd need another to put it down for good. Alright you try." She passed the sling to Grey, who took it in a shaking paw. "Just swing it round and release when you're ready. We're aiming for the big one."

The rat nodded and spun it round half-heartedly. The projectile fell out and hit the sand half a foot away.

Angus snorted and even Victoria looked bemused.

"Come on, you can do better than that. Spin it a bit quicker next time."

Grey obeyed and spun the sling round as fast as he could. The rush of the wind next to his ear was strangely thrilling and for half a second he was sure that he'd hit the target, and it would come crashing down in a heap and then Victoria would give him another smile and-

"Yowch!" He had caught his own tail. Holding the writhing, throbbing appendage in his paws he bit down on a whimper. He did not want to start crying in front of everybeast.

Victoria patted his back soothingly. "There, there. I'm sure you're a lot more um… ferocious… in melee."

After he had recovered from his own devastating attack, Grey stood in front of the dummy, armed with a short wooden sword.

"Alright Berty, just hit him."

"Right." Grey repeated. He had hit things before, he could do this. Then he hesitated. What had the dummy ever done to him?

"Hit it." Andrew whispered.

Grey poked it lightly on the chest. "But it's a dummy."

Victoria facepawed. Andrew laughed.

"Okay. Imagine the ugliest, most frightening, mean little vermin you can think of- then hit him."

Grey focused hard. Gulash was probably the ugliest vermin he knew, but that was only by default. He was probably really good-looking to those interested in big, muscled and bad-tempered rats. Deathglare was the most frightening, but Grey was too scared to hit him. No two words described Sharpfur better than mean and little. He could just imagine the little weasel smirking up at him. 'Go on Grey, hit me. But I'll hit ye back twice as hard. Nah, make that eight times.'

"But-"

"Just hit it."

Grey, very gently, put the flat of the sword against the dummy's cheek. He turned to the others, wearing a nervous grin. One look at their faces was enough to make him hit it properly. And twice for good measure.

"Berty," began Victoria. But he never learned what she had meant to say. For at that moment a shadow fell upon them.

"Morning sir." Chorused the twins. Victoria had straightened into a full, very stiff, salute.

"Morning." Squeaked Grey.

"Good morning children." Said the massive badger, beaming down at them. "I'm sorry to interrupt your, ahem, very important training. But I just had to borrow Berty for a second."

Before the rat could even open his mouth he was lifted off his feet and into the badger's paws.

"I won't be long. Don't worry, you'll soon have your friend back."

Greyclaw went uncomfortably stiff within the grasp of the creature. Majestic or not, the rat would be dead if Umber squeezed even a little bit tighter. He was so lost in crippling fear that he didn't notice where he was being taken until he had arrived at the badger's office.

He had never been there before, but knew it based on the size of the chair alone. He was deposited gently on the table and Umber sat down so that they were almost eye to eye. Of course, that did not change the fact that the badger's head alone was probably bigger than him.

"So, you're probably wondering why I kidnapped you. Well to be honest Berty- or should I call you Greyclaw?"

Horror washed over every inch of Grey like a hot bath. He was momentarily torn between wetting himself, cowering for his life and making a run for it. The badgerlord must have seen the panic in his face and proceeded more gently.

"Whichever you prefer-"

"I never killed anybeast. I didn't cook any mice or eat 'em. I stole things sometimes but I didn't mean any harm I just wanted the things they had and-" his brain had come to a decision. The rat squeezed his eyes shut and raised his paws as if in prayer. "PLEASEDON'TKILLMEANDUSEMYSKULLASADRINKINGCUP!"

The badger paused for a moment, then exploded into a hearty chuckle. He clapped his paws together in applause. "When you ask so nicely, how can I refuse?" He chuckled again, but stopped upon noticing the rat's continued terror.

"I'm not going to hurt you. For all accounts and purposes you are still Berty."

Grey relaxed ever-so-slightly.

"And beyond these walls I'm guessing you still want to be called Berty?"

"Well… Greyclaws not a mouse name."

"And why are you pretending to be a mouse?" The tone was gentle, but made the rat shiver in panic. "B-b-because y-you kill rats. A-an-and it's the Skipper who said I'm a mouse. And then I got scared 'coz all the other otters were looking at me and I said I was a mouse b-b-bec-"

The badger held up his paw for silence. "Would you like a drink?"

The question took the rat by surprise. Either way he nodded.

A cup was pulled out of a drawer and something that smelled of strawberries was poured in.

The cup was slightly smaller than he was, and the bubbling, bright pink juice reminded him horribly of flesh. Poison perhaps?

"I don't want to frighten you. But I won't lie to you either. I have killed rats before. Many times, many ways, I'm an old beast. But, I do not kill children."

He noticed Grey's hesitancy and chuckled. "Do you really think I'd use poison if I wanted to kill you?"

The rat went as pink as the strawberry, his ears drooping in shame. More for something to do than actual thirst, Greyclaw drank.

"Besides, I like to fatten things up first."

Grey choked on the strawberry cordial and exploded into fits of violent coughing.

"That was a joke." The badger said, gently patting Greyclaw's back. "Ill-timed, ill-advised. The fault is mine. Now, aside from letting you know that I know your little secret I did want to ask you something. You see, our mutual friend the Skipper thinks you are a mouse. He also thinks you are the son of two very specific mice. A pair of old friends." He raised a large paw to keep Grey silent. "Please don't interrupt. Let me finish first. He believes that you are the son of one Rowland and Constance, of Redwall Abbey."

Greyclaw frowned. The Cursed Abbey… but that would mean that he really was a mouse and he was pretty sure he was a rat.

"Now, there is some resemblance, I'll give him that. The nose, the eyes, a bit of the ears. But nothing that quite leaps out at you. It doesn't help, I suppose, that Rowland lives on only in our memories. Moreover, their children are dead. Quite horrible, I know. Stabbed. Butchered. Cast into a river and washed away by the current."

Greyclaw blinked. "I-I-I-"

"Judging by your reaction you're familiar with this?"

"I-"

"Were you found on a riverbank?"

Here Greyclaw could only splutter out words and shallow excuses. "Dates and time and and and I-I-I- it's not- Sickletail-" It was too much for his feet, Greyclaw fell on his rump, his head spinning.

"Of course you're right, we won't get anywhere unless someone more involved comes forward. Perhaps Constance would recognize you? Or your mother could tell us. This… Sickletail."

"So I'm a mouse?" The apparently-not-a-rat asked abruptly. He felt like he was falling, but he wasn't falling. But his world was. If he wasn't a rat then he wasn't vermin. And if he wasn't vermin then… Grey forced himself to laugh. "You're pulling my tail, aren't you? I- you know- I- I can't be a mouse."

"Well, we cannot say for certain but it is a possibility. I am unfamiliar with rat biology so I cannot, unfortunately, tell the difference. I suppose I could say you are mouse-like based on your behaviour so far but you smell more like a rat." The badger chuckled at his own joke but stopped abruptly. "Are you alright?"

Greyclaw felt numb. He was lost, deep, deep in thought. Still he replied with 'I'm fine'.

The badger frowned. Perhaps he hadn't been prudent in pulling the trigger so fast. "I heard you were having nightmares. There is a tonic I generally brew for the Skipper but I am sure will work on you, for nightmares. I think you will find it most satisfactory."

Greyclaw accepted a large (for him anyways) phial of light green liquid, his mind still adrift in memories.

"A few drops before bed should do the trick." Said Umber with a wink, but the rat-mouse was still lost.

"Berty." Grey snapped back into reality, his eyes wide. "I think it's best you take the day off. Jack and Tibbers are listening in as we speak, they'll help you to your room. I advise you take the tonic." He adressed the door. "You can come in now!"

The hare opened the door, looking sheepish. "Sorry sah, just had to make sure you didn't skewer this one, wot. Now, we'll just be going now. Sorry for ratting you out Grey, wot. I held it in as long as I could but…" He deflated at the lost look on the alleged rat's face.

"Are you okay?" This was Tibbers, staring at the rat with nothing but worry.

"I'm… I'm… a mouse?"

It was too much for him. To have the last pillar of his old life torn from the ground and shattered into a thousand pieces… he was not a rat. The Honest Bunch and Sharpfur had all left him. And he was a mouse. Every day of his life so far had been built upon… nothing.

Of course he fainted.

* * *

 _Footnote: Hey guys… so, I hope you enjoyed the latest chapter._

 _The joke with Angus and Andrew in the beginning is a reference to the story they like to tell. I think it's something woodland teens would do for extra 'street cred' if you will, act like you've slain a vermin and everyone will think you're big and tough. Harmless bragging really which Grey is pretty sure is them telling the truth. Brightness isn't really his strong suite._

 _Victoria's backstory was fun, mainly because she's one of a few characters to have a personal and somewhat justified reason to vehemently hate vermin. Plus I love the irony in that scene. If it can be called irony…_

 _Now, Grey Claw the rat-mouse… my first properly foreshadowed plot twist..._

 _And I actually did do quite a bit for this. Fret's first meeting with Grey and Sharpfur waaaay back in… five I think? Well, Fret immediately notes that Greyclaw looks 'familiar'. He also deduces that he's a rat because he's holding a weasel and 'no mouse would hold a weasel', strange wording isn't it? A lot of his interactions with Grey after the Not-So-Great Redwall Feast turn into thoughts of Constance very quickly… this in particular probably flew over everyone's heads._

 _Speaking of the Feast, Constance's reaction to finding Greyclaw in the kitchens is? To faint. And what does she do when she wakes up/recovers (I don't remember the exact chapter) but starts dancing around and dragging Abbot Martin with her. She even talks about her son and says 'Skip's alive' (of course she then acts a little cuckoo to throw everyone off the scent by bringing up Fret promising her something when Fret never made any promises)_

 _But… 'Skip' as we know from Connington (in particular his conversation with the Skipper after Fret is nearly skewered and the flashbacks there… chapter six?) was thrown into a river- and Greyclaw was found in a river as we know from Sharpfur way back in chapter… eight? The chapter after the Winter Feast._

 _So… yeah…_

 _Grey Claw however cannot be *confirmed* as either rat or mouse since DNA testing doesn't exist in Redwall. So all this foreshadowing was really just to lead you to a… maybe. Maybe he's a rat. Maybe he's a mouse. We will never know for sure- it's what the *character's* think that's important and right now Greyclaw is one confused rat… or mouse…_

 _As for Constance- well, Grey resembles her offspring enough to make her faint, but at the same time it could have just been the surprise of finding a rat in the pie? Plus when she wakes up she does go on about Fret promising her something… when there was no promise made in regards to returning home. She then hears that her beloved son has betrayed the abbey and hears voices in her head. Anything she says at this point should be taken with a heap of salt._

 _So really it can be read both ways. Grey is either a rat that resembles a very specific mouse or a mouse raised by vermin because his family was killed and his mother had no idea he was alive (and as a result adopted a ferret). Pick your… I don't want to call it poison… your favourite?_

 _Well done Lord demon- you kinda called it just in the nick of time. I reiterate, I like the way you read._

 _And why did I do this?_

 _Parralels, parallels, parallelograms…_

 _Berserker88 noted the parallels between Sharpfur and Fret's arcs earlier on, well Greyclaw's arc is a bit more on the nose. His relationship with the Skipper is akin to Fret and Clogg's, in that both Skipper and Clogg believe that Grey and Fret are their deceased best friend's offspring. Neither Fret nor Grey can ever know for certain who their parents are, but their identity is nevertheless shaken up. Both Fret and Grey change names (Whimper, Berty) and are terrified by their new-found friends (Bork, Victoria, Angus, Andrew) both are also in a stronghold directly opposite the species alignment of their childhood. Fret was raised amongst woodlanders and ends up in a fortress of vermin. Greyclaw was raised amongst vermin and ends up in a fortress of woodlanders. Both are adopted to begin with._

 _You get the picture…_

 _I could have made this clearer I think, if I had placed these chapters in conjunction with the ones with Whimper but hey, what can you do?_

 _Please note that I will still refer to Grey Claw as 'the rat' in dialogue or actions (ie the rat walked away). Because to me, he's still a rat._

 _Personally though I like to think that he *is* Constance's son, but it's not something I wanted to delve into for fear of making this too complicated/loosing you all in a twist that came out of nowhere. Depending on the story versions he kept going from rat to mouse and so on so forth. So I left it kinda open that he can be both (but that was mostly only because I didn't know what I was aiming for). I think he was originally going to be Constance's son for sure, but then I kept loosing confidence in that twist and I thought it was silly- but then I kept liking it and then thinking it was a nice touch- which is why Greyclaw, Jack and Tibbers got a lot less screen time then Fret, Momchillo or Sharpfur- I wasn't sure what to go for with them. I'm still not entirely sure whether it's silly or not which is why it'll probably never be confirmed (since my opinion is just my opinion and foreshadowing or not it could all just be a coincidence) but I'm happy I went through with this, if only to have some semblance of pay-off with this it._

 _So… Good twist, bad twist? Is Grey a rat or a mouse? My foreshadowing? What do you think?_


	38. Death's Woes and Whimper

**A/N: Hi guys, glad the twist was well-recieved (honestly you have no idea how much I've stressed over that...) Or maybe you do XD I shouldn't underestimate your intellect.**

 **Dear Abrahem,**

 **To be fair the Skipper wasn't really thinking clearly. He probably didn't even notice that Fret was a kid to begin with. Though there is no point in arguing that Badgerlord Umber is an honourable guy (in direct contrast to Greyclaw's belief of badgers). Sebias of Redwall put it well.**

 **Eh, maybe it was kind of obvious but that's in my opinion, preferable to an out-of-thin-air twist. To be fair I don't think I made it *too* obvious but at the same time it seems I will have to be a bit less heavy-handed next time. I did debate removing the 'Skip's alive' scene's for the sake of secrecy... But then I liked it. Ah well, it wasn't really meant to blow your mind- just change perspectives a little.**

 **That was actually something I was considering for a while (since hybrids in Redwall are possible and somewhat commonplace- there was a Weasel-rat I think and a Weasel-ferret etc) but ultimately I dropped that since this story was complicated enough already without bringing Blaggut's descendants into this.**

 **Funny how you get so much info from TV Tropes- I love that website XD.**

 **Dear Lord demon,**

 **Well there won't be any goblins *here* per say, I was thinking more along the lines of for a Halloween special (a tradition of mine for some reason). The thing about Savages that's a bit strange is that they don't really fit in with the low-magic setting of Redwall (sure there are ghosts and prophecies but at least half the seers are fake and there aren't exactly fireballs flying around). I don't want to tell you too much more but the whole plot of Black, White and Smothered In Pumpkin kind of leans on this story's ending (which is... Quite a ways off... so... Just hang in there. (Since I can't really stick the ending here... Removes the ahem, emotional weight of it).**

 **Now... Where's that chapter gone?**

* * *

Browneye was sick. Being first-mate was really not all it was cracked up to be. Of course his sudden promotion hadn't helped in the slightest. Many of the crew probably missed the old one, or had hoped to replace them. One startingly pretty she-rat had been rather polite, though. No doubt she had wanted to enter into his good graces. She'd shown him the ropes rather well- told him all about how she was at his service if he needed anything and explained that the first mate's very important job was to stay up in the crow's nest and make sure to keep an eye out.

Clogg had chosen him for the job- he'd even been considering it for a while even.

Of course the job description hadn't said anything about dry biscuits for breakfast, lunch and dinner. Or about sea-waves as tall as mountains. Or about curling up in the crow's nest, shivering your fur off while you could hear laughter from down below. His new shipmates at least, were enjoying themselves…

"Daft little land-lubber isn't 'e?" Giggled Scringewhiskers. Darkhide had just told her mates all about how she'd tricked the poor, naive 'first-mate' into climbing up to the crow's nest.

"That's putting it lightly mate. I told 'im he has to stay up there all day and snore with one eye open. Very important job ye know. Especially when all there's to look at's the sea."

They laughed again.

"He ain't the only land-lubber though, is he?" Fleaback pointed with his muzzle, at the large, green-faced form of Bork. The wolverine was not born for the sea either, it seemed, and had spent most of the journey so far taking up perilous amounts of deck. He had even taken to skipping meals- a living nightmare for the glutton.

"Humph, still not sure why we're taking the fat little princess in the first place- he's just a bigger Whimper. Only he _expects_ ye to lick his arse."

"At least he ain't no unwanted bad-luck bringing baby."

"Not too sure about that Flea." Darkhide cocked her head slightly in the Prince's direction. "His daddy insisted he come. And ye know how it is when he insists his sons leave." She traced a line along her neck to cement the picture.

"Ah, so he's just a corpse then?" Scringe giggled. "Hope he keeps skippin' meals then- no point waistin' good vittles on a deadbeast."

"He might be useful fer raidin' though. Bet no door could keep him out." The she-rat shrugged. "But who am I to speak? Bork, Whimper. We're better off without the brats with great fathers."

"Speaking of Whimper, how's the new one doin'?"

Darkhide shook her head. "Testin' the Captain's patience. Proof he's gone soft really… couple of seasons ago he'd have flayed that ferret. All things considered... We might need a change in leadership."

The air seemed to drop three temperatures, so that all around them lay an icy mist.

"Yer talkin' mutiny." Scringe whispered, making sure nobeast else was within earshot.

"Aye. And nobeast'll care. All of last voyage Clogg was up in 'is cabin, playin' with his pet. He'll do the same this time. The rest of the crew don't love 'im more than I do. Anyhow we won't need 'im after we're finished. Captain might just slip on the way back North."

There was a long pause as all three mulled this over. At last Fleaback spoke. "We'll do it… I'll help ye gut 'im. But ye do the first stab. Then we're with ye."

"Speak fer yerself addlebrain. If he's gone soft, why're we whisperin', eh? I'm with ye if ye do it- but ye only do it if'n ye can prove he's not our Captain anymore. Challenge him, go on. See who's real soft inside. Now drop this. We're not doin' it now anyways."

* * *

"No! No! No! No! No! No! Ye do not say _anythin_ ' at _any_ point in the conversation."

"But shouldn't I try an' win the Captain's over? Go on about my father- Mad-Eye Marik, the greatest warlord whatever lived. Shouldn't I inspire them by example?"

Clogg gritted his teeth and rubbed his only good eyelid. "Ye don't win creatures over by braggin' about how many times ye've been in bed with somebeast pretty. We're dealin' with pirates. Real pirates that don't dress in silk like princesses an' feel the need te show-off." Clogg paced over to his books, his foot tapping impatiently on the ground as he chose his documents.

"We're dealin' with things like this." He slammed a small collection of parchment in front of the fake Whimper. "The Manywhispers." He pointed at a wildcat, his face covered in jagged lines of battle, and sharp, white whiskers that spread out like a slider's web. "Got eyes an' ears everywhere."

He presented another page, and pointed at what looked like an insane, multi-coloured rat... Which described the Dreaded pretty well. "Covered in beads, the largest rat ye ever saw. Been te more places then ye can count. And fer every place he's raided he adds a bead."

"Very impressive." The burly ferret shoved the papers aside.

Clogg growled. "Don't ye get it? There ain't no point bragging if one already knows more about ye than ye do. An' if the others already done it."

"But I happen to be the son of Mad-Eye Marik. And was he not, a greater beast than they?" He stood up and stretched his paws wide. "Southwards, the Northlands, Mossflower Country- even the badgers in Salamandastron shook at the sight of his sails. Ye were with 'im. Ye know it to be true."

Clogg leaned forwards so that his eye could better ensnare the young ferret's pair. "Keep sayin' yer Marik's son an' it'll start to smell real fishy."

"Fishy? Yer acting like I'm lying. But for all you know, I could be. I'm an orphan. I was with his horde when he died. Perhaps I just got lost in all the chaos."

"Yer too old." Clogg snapped impatiently.

"How would ye know? Didn't he bed any women?"

Clogg's foot beat the ground like a drum. "Yer not Marik's son and as soon as ye stop foolin' yerself an' start foolin' others the better."

"Humph… can I at least change my name then? Give myself a name worthy of a warlord."

" _No_." Here he left no room for argument.

"But Whimper's a runts name!"

"It's supposed to be _yer_ name until ye earn a new one! So we ain't changin' it."

The ferret opened his mouth to argue- but Clogg waved him away. "Go ask Darkhide fer somethin' to do, I ain't got time fer this."

'Whimper' left with a furrowed brow and a snarl, and slammed the door shut behind him.

"Marik's son." Clogg spat. "I find that unlikely." And he would... He knew Marik's son better than anybeast else alive.

* * *

 _"He's small." The burly ferret complained. "And scrawny." He kept the stupid, grinning baby ferret at arm's length. "I don't want it."_

 _"Humph." His wife, known to most as Slit-Eye the Slit-Throat, snatched the thing back. "I go through all the trouble of givin' ye an heir an' ye don't want 'im. Pah, some warlord ye are."_

 _"I want an heir." Snapped Marik. "But not… whatever that is. He'll probably be dead by mornin'. No muscle. No-"_

 _"Give the babe a break Marik. He's two weeks old, not even yew had muscles then." Clogg threw his paws out. "Here, let me hold him."_

 _Slit-Eye, who was not the best kind of mother, thrust the silent babe into the rat's waiting paws._

 _Clogg promptly tossed it into the air, amidst shouts of alarm and dismay. He caught the giggling babe without difficulty, laughing himself as both parents sighed in relief. He brought it in close and wriggled his nose until the young ferret bit it. The rat laughed harder. "He'll be a pirate one day, mark my words."_

 _"Yes, well… I hope he's more than just a pirate." Marik snapped impatiently. "Now what shall we call him? I haven't got all day- the Dreaded grows impatient._

 _"Marik Junior, the Scrawny Wonder." Clogg cackled, as he wrestled with the infant desperate to nibble his nose off._

 _"How about Whimper?" Suggested Split-Eye, as she pried her baby off of the rat's snout._

 _"Huh?" His eyes could not help but widen slightly. Marik scoffed._

 _"Well, he goes by Clogg now, might as well call something Whimper. What'd ye say, eh 'Clogg'?"_

 _"Geez Split... I-I dunno what ter say. I'd be hono-"_

 _"It's not meant t' onor ye, stupid. It's a baby name. When he's older he can give himself a proper name. Something that ain't so stupid." The ferret snapped making Clogg go pink. "But for now he can be our Whimper."_

 _"A fitting name." Said Marik coldly, his bad eye rolling out of sight. "For a runt."_

 _Clogg recovered quickly and resumed his game with the baby- who now bore his former name. Whimper._

* * *

How long had he been there? How many days had passed since he'd sent Momchillo scurrying to freedom? Had it even been days? And not weeks? Or months? Perhaps it had been seasons… It was not like he would ever find out. He was stuck in a barrel. In a cellar. Farther North than he had ever been.

It was a torturous state to be in. Complete discomfort that went paw in paw with the perpetual desire to vomit. He wasn't even sure what he hated more. The stench or the confined space. The barrel had but one hole it it, out of which dangled one of his feetpaw. He could hear the crackling of a bright fire nearby, but the warmth only brought further discomfort. Sweat poured out from him like rain from a rain cloud, and filled his tiny cage with a thick cloud of foul-smelling steam.

He had resisted all torture so far, but the hare had played especially low today. He had asked all the usual questions.

'What did the Honest Bunch do?'

'Describe Gulash.'

'Describe Threeclaw.'

'Did you steal a mouse?'

'Did you steal a squirrel?'

'A young hare?'

'Tiny shrew?'

'Ferret?'

'Vole?'

'Mole.'

And Deathglare gave him the same reply- devoid of any of the smugness he'd managed to retain the first time. "You can't steal mice. They're persons, not valuables."

He'd been stuffed into the barrel for that. And worse still was what came after.

"Better out than in, eh Jon?"

He had known, of course he'd known, that this was Deathglare's barrel. And he'd still ignored his muffled screaming and kicking feetpaw, and let the dumb, drunk mouse puke all over him. Damned hare. One day he'd lose more than an eye.

The Long Patrol General or whatever he was, showed no mercy after that either. He'd pulled one of his flailing legs through the stopper in the barrel lid- and with brutal force had proceeded to tickle him.

Deathglare had seen dibbuns do it to each other all the time. But a full-grown hare that had no doubt a hundred badges to brag of… it was almost silly. But it wasn't silly. It was painful and humiliating. Any and all laughter was stuck in his gagged-snout, forcing him to snigger- his whole body convulsing and hitting odd angles of his filthy prison. His empty stomach shaking like a rag in a gale, reminding him that he could not remember the last time he'd eaten. And then he'd pissed himself. And then he'd found himself crying. Not because it stunk- though that did upset his nose. But because any semblance of control he could convince himself he had, vanished on the spot. He couldn't even control his bladder- let alone his destiny.

And so the convulsing and kicking had stopped, replaced now by whimpering and tears that he would have wiped away in shame had anyone been looking.

Suddenly his barrel shifted and the lid came off. The dismal light of a small fire forced him to squint, or else go blind. He was lifted by the tail this time, and dumped into another barrel.

This one was filled with ice-cold water and made Deathglare scream and thrash. He did not want to drown- there were so many better ways of dying… he didn't want to die at all to be honest.

But to his surprise he was then wrenched from the icy depths and dumped unceremoniously before the fire. His bonds were cut and his gag removed and the remains of an old sail were thrown over him to act as a makeshift towel.

A bowl was then shoved into his shaking paws. An extremely thin slice of bread, small lumps of what could have been anything from chunks of potatoe to sausages of a very oily fish, and a ladleful of soup that stunk of rotten mushroom.

"Alright vermin, wot. We can do this two ways. I can keep starving you and messing with your feetpaws and whatnot until you tell me the whole truth. Or you can answer honestly now and spare me the trouble."

"So either way I die?" He asked after a moment 's pause.

The hare seemed to mull this over for a while before he gave his very stiff reply. "You put too much value on your own flesh and blood vermin. But, answer me honestly and you shan't die by my paw. On my honor as a hare of the Long Patrol."

"And if I don't?"

"Well it's back in the barrel with you and once I've broken you… well some would say death would be a mercy, wot."

Deathglare knew intimidation. He was a master at it- and you had to be if you didn't have real skill behind you. But still chills went up his spine and turned his blood to ice. Because it was not a threat- the hare had spoken only the truth, his only eye never once leaving Deathglare's own good one.

More for something to do, the marten munched at his dismal supper. Hungry though he was the food did little to satisfy his gurgling belly.

"What do you want to know?" Came his voice at last.

"Where's the dibbuns? And don't lie. I know the 'Honest Bunch' is what got 'em, wot."

There was a long pause wherein One-Eye glared at the black-furred vermin, who for the first time since he'd been a scrawny child, radiated nothing but fear.

"There was one molemaid- she's back at the abbey safe and sound now." The hare said slowly.

"G-good." Gulped his target.

"We're only missing a shrew, a vole, a hare- my own son don'tcha know- a squirrel, a hedgehog and a mouse." At that moment Connington stumbled over and nearly fell into the flames. Fleetfoot set him down against the cellar floor. "Oh and a ferret I suppose."

Deathglare was shaking so much now that the bowl of vittles fell from his paws and cracked against the ground. Neither seemed to notice.

"You are going to tell me exactly what happened. How you got the young 'uns and how you lost them and most importantly-" the hare leaned in as close as the fire allowed him to. The glaring inferno made him seem like nothing less than a beast right out of Hellgates. "How I can find them."

Deathglare started from the beginning. Despite his fear he managed to distance himself from the words so that it all came in dull monotone. "Well, one day Sharpfur and Greyclaw came back from fishing. They said they had met a ferret who lived at Red- your abbey. Well, we didn't believe them until a few weeks later they dragged him over to our camp. Weird little thing, he acted… well like a rude little woodlander. Then me and Threeclaw found the other young ones, they seemed to be looking for him. And we thought-"

Here he hesitated, unwilling to incriminate himself lest the hare go back on his word. "We thought we could ransom them for rations if supplies got short. Far easier to trade then to raid. But we got a message from a mute rat, and he said we had to go North, so we headed South-kids in tow. A week or so passed, we kept our… ah… guests, fed and watered. They were all healthy and in high spirits- thought it was only a matter of time before you came to rescue 'em."

Except the shrew had had a nasty wound on his shoulder, one that had gone bad. Threeclaw's doing, dumb stoat.

"Then we were attacked and…" he paused again- not daring to even glance at the hare. "We lost track of the children. It was a hard battle but I'm no fighter and… when I woke up most of me shipmates were dead or gone. Your kids too, unfortunately. The mouse was with us too and… well we looked after him for a while. Made sure he was alright and stuff. We got here and were separated, so it was just me and the mouse. Tough lad, I'll give him that. Never backed down. Got half a hundred lashings for it, but it never stopped him. And his spirits were high. Kept going on about Martin the Warrior or somewhat like that. Said he was a slave once."

This was the same mouse he'd captured, tied to a mast and had sent to his death. What fool thought that a child, not even on the cusp of adulthood, could somehow go through the ice and snow and everything else between here and Redwall... alone. He'd been desperate sure, but that was just an excuse for his stupidity.

"And then he vanished. Escaped. Left us all in the dead of night. Baffled the slavemaster it did, n-not even I know how he got out. He escaped and they blamed me for it. Sentenced me to freeze to death or get eaten alive. I escaped and… got shoved into a barrel."

There was an extremely long pause, wherein the only sound was the crackling of the fire.

"And you too, were flabbergasted by his great escape, wot?"

Deathglare stared intent at the burning wood- the remnants of an old barrel. "Yes."

Silence slunk in and stretched itself out for eternity.

It was a lot to take in for Fleetfoot. On one paw it contradicted the molemaid's story- apparently it hadn't all been the fault of Connington's nephew. But the marten didn't gain anything from lying.

"So none of the children are here?"

"None."

"And your crew? How many of them are here?" He could not trust vermin- but he could trust that they hated their captors more than him. A plan was forming in the cunning hare's mind.

"Three others. Two weasels in the kitchen and one in… threading… I think." Deathglare's eyes were narrowing now. How did that question serve the hare?

"Well… you hear that Connington ole chap? We're leaving!"

Deathglare blinked, and for the first time since he'd begun talking, he locked eyes with the hare.

"And I'm going to need your help, wot."

Deathglare widened his eyes. "I-"

"You don't really have a choice you know, old chap. You either help me out or I barrel you. But riddle me this, how many beasts does it take to man a boat?"

* * *

 _Footnote: A bit of a shorter chapter but I didn't want to delve too deeply into Deathglare's torture and I didn't feel like this was a scene worth extending too much. It's mostly a set-up/recap chapter. The next few one's are gonna center around the after-effects of Fret and Momchillo's escape, plus the sudden emptiness of the castle (since all the pirates just left)._

 _Funnily enough Deathglare was always destined to get tortured (though the methods... Greatly varied from version to version...). But it's funny how some things changed so much and... Some things always stay the same XD. Poor Death. Though ultimately this was preferable to... Other gruesome things._

 _The most fun thing to write however, was Clogg's flashback. Not sure if you're all a fan of flashbacks but the next chapters are going to have a couple of them. In order to expand upon my... Rather large cast if I may say so myself._


	39. All Rebellions Start In The Kitchens

**A/N:** **To Sebias Of Redwall, it's what happens I suppose when I torture characters. Though you probably shouldn't feel too bad for him, I mean yes, Fleetfoot was horrible to him, but from the hare's perspective it was just pragmatism. Plus Death *did* start this story out as a literal kidnapper. Originally all of the Honest Bunch were going to end up suffering for that but in the interest of family friendliness there are one or two Karma Houdinis... It's the same reason I flayed Silvertongue- karma's gonna hit like a truck when it comes.**

 **To Abrahem, yeah been meaning to write Mad-Eyes for a *while* now. Gave him that brief scene just so I could have some point of reference. For a dead character he's changed personalities so much over the course of writing this. Originally he was going to be this very noble, but misunderstood guy- but then someone else already did that and it made Skipper and co (including Constance who loves Fret like a son full stop) a bit too evil (and I can't have Constance being evil). So I made him a baddie for the same reason I made the other kids unaware of what they were doing to Fret. And that is *not* making every woodlanderr racist and evil. They *do* have reasons to hate vermin- but that does not make bias against Fret (or any other vermin) fair considering he's not responsible for that kind of thing. In other words to give neither party the high ground. Funnily enough if Fret is the same baby Whimper as in that flashback (you guys can decide that one to be honest) it seems Clogg would always have been his main father figure. He'd have probably ended up something like the fauxWhimper and Bork if Marik was still alive (entitled, spoiled/wanting approval from dad, bad-tempered)**

 ***Spittake* D-did I imply that? Damn that sounds like a good twist! Should have gone for it really... Unfortunately Thornflame is more or less dead and so is Fret's biological mother (neither will appear anymore... At least definitely not in Book II, III is still in planning but I find that unlikely seeing as the central premise of Book III is The Return. Fun fact, Thornflame was originally meant to be Fret's big sister (Marik's daughter) but that idea got scrapped a long time ago. Huh, what made you think that, may I ask?**

 **And of course... I may be lying... So you can keep your theories...**

 **Vermin names are really mostly two words put together, as such most vermin give themselves their own names. Exceptions to this are Sharpfur and his siblings (because he's got parents and stuff). Sick-Eyes for example wasn't always Sick-Eyes (as a pirate Captain she probably had a more badass name). Or if a vermin starts off with a cool name (baby Gulash doesn't need a new name coz Gulash is already badass). Though some unfortunate vermin never loose stupid name and get landed with stuff like 'Stinky'. Threeclaw is only known such because he's missing some fingers and so on.**

 **Well Deathglare was originally gonna get tortured by I believe Clogg (to find out where Whimper is as it's no coincidence he vanished the same day a slave does) but that made him *too* evil. So it was gonna be Flayface and he was going to almost die but then he would trick the fox into drinking poison and make an escape. Then he was going to die during torture, or after it but... I went over that.**

 **Honestly I think I will do a behind the scenes/pages look at this story when all is said and done. Not sure how without at least a 1K authors note XD Forums maybe, but I don't really use those... Maybe I'll write a story about some soothsayer looking into alternate timelines...**

 **Question for all of you: Do you prefer intersecting arcs where every chapter slowly advances the plot of some characters and the next one is about another set so on so forth. Or should I go arc by arc and focus on a set group of character's for a longer period of time before moving on to another group? Can't make my mind up over this.**

 **Anyways, now onto the next segment.**

His palace was often quiet. It was built that way, built around silence and secrets. Most floors didn't have any staircases, just long corridors that slanted ever so slightly. One could walk all day thinking they were safely on the ground- but were in reality, perilously high up. Dozens of secret passageways were known to the wolverine king and to him alone. Staircases that lead from the slave-dungeons to cellars. Tunnels that lead to a far deeper system all across the Frozen North. Unfortunately, he had always been a bit too big to explore those himself.

But his palace was quieter now than it had been in seasons, not since Marik had it been so empty.

Sure, the slaves were still there, but he never sullied himself by associating with them. Most of his Silent Guard he'd sent away with Clogg and the other pirates- to make sure his interests were always guarded against anybeast that outgrew reasonable ambition. He doubted he'd see most of the tongueless wonders again, still, so long as he was not forgotten.

Bork was gone too, thank Vulpuz, the boy was annoying and fat and asked far too many questions. Not even the first two had been that bad. Whether his son returned mattered little. Either Bork would be dead and he'd have to produce another heir, hopefully one that clung to him less but was also not overly ambitious, or his youngest son would return with a name worthy of a prince. Perhaps he'd even start acting like one and would even be worthy of the King's precious time… highly unlikely, but weren't all dreams like that? If it could even be called a dream.

He watched from a hidden window- one that looked exactly like an outer wall might to the outside world- as his new Slavemaster bullied his bunch down in Construction, where bricks of red sandstone were being made and added to his walls. There was magic in those stones, Longclaw was certain. What exactly it was or how it worked he did not know, but how else had Mossflower's Abbey not yet fallen? The badgers were wise creatures, and knew these reasons better than he, but he did not need to know to copy.

Brown-eye's replacement was a fierce old fox. He was of an age with his king, but lacked Longclaw's longevity and as such was already gnarled and rusted by age, yet fit enough to command the submissive creatures all around him. He had had the misfortune of being in the path of a badger with bloodwrath. It was rumoured that half his face was missing and that was why he wore a multi-coloured mask- but Longclaw knew better. His whole face was missing. Flayface the Foul they called him, though Longclaw knew him as Flayface the Fool. He almost trusted the fox, but alas, knew that his current slavemaster had tried to murder him half a dozen times over the course of their lifetime, half of those before the age of seven.

It would be foolish to trust him. Still, he did his job well. Construction, Mining, Threading and of course, the Kitchens were all running smoothly. And Longclaw had barely anything to worry about. It was a relief after all the haggling he'd been forced to do between pirates that quite frankly hated each other.

But that didn't mean he could rest easy... No king should or else they were no king.

* * *

Silvertongue eyed his pile of carrots dismally. He was a deadbeast. A very, very dead deadbeast, marked out by the missing skin on his right paw.

"Damn that ferret." He hissed as the root he was currently cutting shot away from him. He would have been stirring soup or doing something easy if his paw was decent. Frankly it was all he'd done over the winter. Now though his flayed paw marked him out as an easy target. His height didn't help and neither did the new slavemaster, who seemed determined to prove that he was just as cruel- if not moreso- than the old one.

Ever since the feast he'd been moved to cutting, which was agonizing. His paw felt numb and ached at the best of times, let alone when he was using it to hold something still. He wasn't handy with knives and had cut himself a dozen times. It was like pouring oil onto a burning beast and weak and pathetic as he was he couldn't help the hisses of pain or the yelps or the tears that inevitably followed such an action.

Sickletail was out of sight, being occupied with innumerable tasks to prevent her from helping out. Still the fox had underestimated his wife. The first few times she had against all odds managed to finish her duties and his own. But then exhaustion had begun to set in, she could not keep this up forever and as he watched her now, furiously struggling with a ball of dough, he knew his life was forfeit. This time at least Sickletail could not save him.

He only wished that he would be allowed to say goodbye. He hadn't managed to do so for his children, and even if he had to shout it mid-execution he wanted to give her a goodbye… and a thank you. She deserved that much at least.

His life had been eventful to say the least. Born a runt he'd outlived his litter, which had been wiped out by a particularly harsh winter. Silver-tongued and smarter than most he'd won the heart of the most beautiful weasel to grace Mossflower Country. Eight children of their own and one happily adopted. Life with the Honest Bunch had been simple. Occasionally raid, forage supplies, avoid woodlanders and live in peace. Not every beast needed a great castle or to lead a horde. He had been happy watching his children come into the world and grow up. He'd been happy carrying around their fat little rat and calling him part of the family.

Hellgates he was crying again. With a viciousness the carrot didn't deserve, Silvertongue stabbed forwards.

"Alright, I'm done. Hand over the knife." This was Sickletail, who panted as she wrenched the knife free of his paws. "Carrots, eh? Not too difficult." With speed that Silvertongue could not hope to match, the weasel proceeded to slice the carrots into neat little pieces. She was done in a few, short minutes and slid to the floor of the kitchens with a deep breath.

"Ye can't keep this up." Said Silvertongue, sliding to the floor next to her. He took her paw in his good one and squeezed it tight. "Forget lil' old me. I'm a deadbeast sooner or later, no point gettin' yerself killed too."

"Everybeast's a deadbeast sooner or later. I don't care, we've bin over this. I ain't gonna let ye die. And stop moping so much. Yer not leavin' me and that's final."

"Ye'll wear yerself out. Look at yerself, ye don't even get any sleep."

"Shut it! Yer not dyin'!" She snapped, pulling her paw away from his.

"I am." He snapped adamantly. "Ye deserve better though."

"I don't! I deserve just as much as ye do an' anyhow what have I got ter live fee? Our kids are dead!"

"But ye don't have te be! Ye can have more kids... Live fer my sake at least."

"Don't make much sense if yer goin' to die yerself." Sickletail pushed herself to her feetpaws. "Anyhow ye know ye can't argue with me." Taking his good paw, she lifted him back to his own feet.

"That I do." He said with what would have been a grin in any other place.

"I warned you hare." Came Deathglare's voice.

"Yes. I see what you mean. How on earth do you put up with them? Wot. No wonder you were such a tough nut to crack."

The pair of weasels found themselves staring at Deathglare, who for some reason was wearing a sail and was standing besides a one-eyed hare. The pine marten also had a leash (that looked suspiciously like his old clothes) which the hare held tight in one paw. He raised the other in greeting.

"Top of the … late afternoon to you, wot. Allow me to introduce myself. I am Captain Fleetfoot One-eye of the Long Patrol. You already know Death here I assume."

"Death?" Repeated Silvertongue, dumbstruck by the pair's sudden appearance. "Since when were ye pals with the Long Patrol?"

"We're not exactly pals." The marten replied, indicating the makeshift collar round his neck.

"But we share a mutual interest in escape." The hare butted in. "And I am sure that you do too."

Every eye in the kitchen was on them. A long pause followed his words.

"B-b-but if you try to escape they hurt you." Stuttered a small otter that looked twice his actual age and sported less fingers than Threeclaw.

"Ah ole chap, thing is we're not trying. We're _doing._ "

"Ye've got a plan?" Asked Sickletail skeptically, but the excitement in her eyes gave vent to her true feelings.

"Cover of dark. Steal a boat." Deathglare explained.

"That won't work." Said an old mouse, shaking his head so that his ears flopped at his sides. "Best to just do as they says. They won't hurt you then."

"Well we haven't perfected it yet." Fleetfoot grumbled impatiently. "But where there's a will there's a way, wot. It is of utmost importance-"

"Flayface is coming." Whispered a hedgehog, just loud enough to be heard. There was a mad scramble to get back to work. Sickletail vaulted over a table to get to her station, Silvertongue picked up a pawful of carrot slices to put into the bowl as soon as the fox showed himself. The otter went back to stirring. The mouse to rolling. Despite the fact that neither knew who Flayface was, Deathglare and Fleetfoot too, scrambled for cover. The hare snatched the marten, and ignoring his sudden protest, stuffed him into an empty barrel. The hare himself promptly dived into an unused oven.

And all in the nick of time, for Flayface announced his arrival with a crack of his whip.

"How's lunch coming along then?" He asked, eyeing the assorted slaves, searching for somebeast to make an example of. "Weasel…" Unsurprisingly he chose the smallest one. "How are those carrots?"

"Done sir." Silvertongue replied, driving as much contempt into the last word as possible.

"Impressive skill. Yer wife is quite talented." The fox chewed thoughtfully. "Now, show me what _yew can_ do." The fox picked up a fat, stray carrot off the floor.

Silvertongue searched for the knife, and picked it up with a shaking paw. His flayed one held the root in place and carefully the weasel dug the blade into the carrot.

The fox shoved him to the side and the knife blade gently skimmed his bad paw. It did not cut deep, but enough to draw blood. It hurt and his eyes could not help but begin to tear.

"Just as I thought." He turned to Sickletail. "Yer with me tomorrow. We'll see how well yer precious pup does without his mama." The fox brought the whip down twice on the whimpering weasel, and kicked him for yelping. Flayface spun on his heel and strolled over to the otter.

"Yer a good lad riverdog. It'd be sad te chew off any more of those fingers, wouldn't it? Tell me, why do I smell hare?" He drew in close. The otter shrunk.

"I-I-I don't know sir."

"Really?" He drew close to the otter's face. To the slave's credit he didn't mean to give Fleetfoot away. But instinctively his eyes darted to the unnocupied oven. "Yer a good lad. Soup smells good today. Very good. Almost... Like hare."

Flayface strolled towards the oven. "Some slaves from Threading have gone missing. Mostly vermin but I think there could have been a hare or two." He made his way to the oven. "I wonder what's cooking in here…"

The otter was shaking. "I'm sorry! I didn't mean- I just did and- it's nothing sir!"

Flayface was a skilled bully. He was expecting a frightened slave he could beat into submission. He most certainly did not expect an oven door coming towards him.

Fleetfoot shot out of his hidhng place with speed worthy of his name, but by then the fox had recovered and shot the whip forwards. It's cutting barbs tightened round the Captain's foot and brought the hare crashing down.

"Nothing, eh?" Flayface wiped at his nose. "Ye'll be sorry otter. As for yerself hare-" A mad dash to escape he should have seen coming, but the hare's sudden twist and swing of his paw was another thing. The whip was knocked out of Flayface's grip and the hare scrambled to his feet. Both grabbed the nearest thing to them.

In the vulpine's case it was a cleaver. In the Captain's a rolling pin. Flayface darted forwards with a snarl and swung the blade at his opponent's ears. Fleetfoot hastily flattened them, and tried to parry with a rolling pin that was promptly cut in half.

Not missing a beat the hare slammed the other half into the fox's face. The slavemaster didn't miss a beat either and brought the cleaver down, aiming for the hare's long feet. But he wasn't 'Captain' for nothing and had earned all his medals through blood sweat and tears. He kept his toes by a fraction of an inch, having managed to scoot backwards in the nick of time.

Sickletail pounced from a tabletop and dug her claws into the fox's mask. She'd been aiming for his eye but missed. To her surprise the mask neatly slid off and her with it.

Flayface's grizzly features were now free for all to see. Gnarled, pink flesh the colour of spring roses. A single eye that bulged out far too much to be natural. And his teeth- shining white for all to see despite the fact that his jaws were technically shut. He lacked a muzzle and cheeks and his nose was a pair of small holes at the edge of a wobbly bit of flesh.

"You are certainly uglier than I expected, wot." The hare had gone pale at the sight of his opponent. It was... Rather horrifying.

Fleetfoot threw the remaining half of his rolling pin at his opponent, and caught the fox in the stomach. The hare used the side of a cooking top to ricochet towards his opponent. He barreled into the fox and knocked him flat on his back, the cleaver sliding out of reach.

Flayface opened his mouth to shout, but using both arms, One-eye snapped the jaws closed. The fox's claws shot forwards and forced their way into the hare's sides. Fleetfoot ignored the pain as best he could and released one paw long enough to bring it crashing down on the Slavemaster's face.

The pair continued to scuffle, until with a tremendous effort Flayface lifted the hare into the air. Fleetfoot sent a flurry of kicks into his opponent's midriff, but was nonetheless thrown off. The hare crashed against a barrel which was promptly sent spinning about the kitchens until it crashed against the side of an oven. Deathglare came spilling out of it with a groan.

"Yer a tough one." The fox growled, rising to his feet and reaching for a nearby knife. "But I've fought badgers an' lived. No _hare's_ gonna stop me."

Silvertongue reached the knife first, and slammed it through the slaver's paw and into the table. Flayface howled in pain, and was promptly slashed across his face by the vengeful weasel's claws. Before he could retaliate Sickletail slammed a cleaver down and neatly sliced off his left toes.

But the fox was screaming and as the other, terrified, kitchen workers knew- someone would soon hear the commotion. Deathglare also knew this, which was why he rushed (dizilly) in from behind and pounced upwards. He brought his leash around the fox's neck and squeezed, so that no sound could come spilling from it's jaws.

But the fox was fighting back. One blood-soaked feetpaw knocked Sickletail onto her back- his unpinned paw swatted Silvertongue away before it went for Deathglare. He had forgotten completely, about the hare.

Like a river bursting from a dam, Fleetfoot charged and ripped Flayface's paw free from the knife and table. With a grunt of exertion, he forced the flailing fox into a flaming fireplace.

There was hissing from the burning coals, and a smell foul enough to knock out somebeast with a better nose. If Deathglare hadn't spent an unhealthy amount of time crammed into a stinking barrel he'd have been sick. There would have been screaming (and lots of it) but the pine marten held firm despite the proximity to the flames, until the vulpine's thrashing form went limp.

One-eye pulled the dead fox free of the fire and helped a disgruntled (for some of his fur had singed) Deathglare to his feetpaws.

"Y-y-you killed him." This was the old mouse, sounding thunderstruck. He looked like he was about to have a heart attack. To be fair so did every other slave.

"Chap didn't give us much of a choice mate." One-Eye rubbed at his sides. Ten long gashes, but none very deep. They were sore and blood still gently trickled free from them. On the whole though he was unharmed.

"He had it coming." Silvertongue was looking very pleased with himself. Far too pleased than anyone who had just participated in murder should have been.

"Now they hurt us." Whimpered the otter, curling in on himself as tightly as he could.

"Don't worry boys. Nobeast'll know. I always get away with my murders." Sick-Eyes made her grand entrance.

"What're ye doing here?"

"I escaped threadin' while they were movin' us back to our cells. It was difficult and required a lot of skill. I'm fine, thanks fer askin'. As to yer other question, same as Death an' his pet hare."

"I'd say he's more like my pet. The leash really does the trick, don'tcha know?"

Sick-Eyes ignored him, there was childlike excitement in the old pine marten's eyes. "Let's start a rebellion!"

The other slaves looked rather like one would when faced with the prospect of dying. In other words, terrified.

"They'll have ears for this!"

"And fingers!"

"Nevermind ears and fingers- they'll have heads for this!"

"No they won't." Explained the old beast patiently. "The hare's a tall beast an' there are fox skulls all over this damn place. Give 'im the mask an' nobeast'll know the difference."

"B-but the b-b-body."

Here Sick-Eyes looked demented enough to make even those who knew her, not to mention a hare of the Long Patrol, take a few steps backwards.

"Don't ye lot know how to make soup?"

"Soup?"

"Aye! With carrots and that. Details don't matter, just get the biggest pot ye have boiling. I'll tell ye what ter do as ye do it. But first Death is gonna tell us why he's wearing a sail."

"I'm not-"

"I was gonna ask that too." Added Sickletail.

The pine marten shrunk slightly. Fleetfoot patted his back jovially. "Go on chap, tell 'em what happened."


	40. Weasel Soup

**A/N: The fight was a necessity I feel. Been too long since I wrote that kind of action (getting chased by a snake is rather different to fighting in a kitchen). Perhaps a bit brutal (usually the villains are more dislikeable before I cook them). But oh well…**

 **One-Eye, I know it's your name but forgive me for not noticing that your wildcat shares the same name as my hare. Funny coincidence (and I figure it's a coincidence because I know another One-Eye, a dragon from the How To Train Your Dragon book series)**

 **Sebias of Redwall, More on Longclaw later, but unfortunately I think he got the short straw in terms of villains. He was gonna be the big bad originally and I therefore have copious amounts of notes on him that shall, alas, most likely not make it here.**

 **Abrahem, Damn, your reviews get longer and longer. Just replying to them seems to double the word count XD Not that I mind.**

 **I don't usually write romance (but it's starting to creep it's way in nowadays…) so I'm glad you liked Silver and Sickle's little scene.**

 **Sick-Eyes is always fun. Wish I could shoehorn in more of her (you can have a lot of fun with grannies- especially vermin ones).**

 **Yeah Thornflame was implied to be the ferret maid in that scene. And well, you guessed it right! She was supposed to be Fret's big sister. If she ever does return then I guess she still could be, although Clogg has yet to think/mention her so that's probably an issue. Of course there is the possibility that she's born out of wedlock (ie she's a bastard) but again I didn't really think that far ahead. I don't know if this spoils the ending or not, but depending on where Fret's morality ended up going she would have had a larger role. I'd say more but that would give the final outcome away. Despite the fact that I think most of you have got a pretty good idea I'm still a bit hesitant with it.**

 **And yeah, behind the scenes is definitely something I'm going to do. Though I don't want to think too far ahead for now, it's a bit hard to look ahead when there's this giant black and white thing in my way XD**

 **Yeah, well spotted. Flayface was basically an expy to Slagar. The show's not bad although the proportions (never described in Redwall) kind of made it a bit weird. I liked Vitch too, Mattimeo is one of the better books in my humble opinion.**

 **I'll consider it, but can't think of a way to write them in. Like, what were they doing all winter XD? If you've got any ideas I'd happily take those into consideration.**

 **Your suggestion (and Berserker88's good ole advice) have settled my inner debate. Interspaced arcs it is! Which means that we'll have to leave the Northlands Rebellion behind for a little while and head back South.**

 **I didn't quite catch the meaning of that last comment. I'm guessing you're offering your help with alternate story ideas? If you're going to reread them anyways then I guess there's nothing I can do to stop you XD**

 **I look forwards to your thoughts on Redwall- the novel.**

 **Author's notes btw, are these things at the top and bottom that I use to talk about story stuff and reply to reviews and whatnot. And I was considering maybe starting a forum for all the alternate story stuff but all of that's not gonna get published until… next year at best? This is a rather long story XD**

 **Fair warning, this chapter has got something… rather squicky (is that the right word?), nothing M rated I think, but also kind of hard to stomach (you'll see why that's a pun in a bit). Now without further ado…**

It was not the best disguise, but it was serviceable. He lacked about an inch or two of the fox's height, but that wasn't too noticeable from a distance. An old, yellow fox skull was jammed to the top of his head, before the former Slavemaster's mask was placed on top. The woodlander kitchen staff were dressing him in the vulpine's clothing. Awkward though it was to have his uniform unceremoniously taken off and to be dressed in corsair clothing by complete strangers it was preferable to cleaning up Connington's vommit. He'd left the drunk mouse tightly bound and barreled for his own good. In hindsight he should have done that the moment he'd started drinking.

The slaves worked quickly, but with shaking paws. His long ears were pressed flat against his back and tied round his neck so that instinctive stiffening did not give him away. A cloak was thrown round him, though he had to fasten it himself for all other paws were shaking too hard.

Poor souls, all of them. They kept staring at the door, as if expecting it to unleash bloody retribution for the punishable offence of killing a slavemaster.

The weasels were similarly hard at work, though their job was considerably less pleasant. Guided by the elderly pine marten they peeled fur from flesh and flesh from bone. What had been a fighting fox a few moments before was reduced to chopped up pieces of meat.

"Chop 'is liver with the kidneys. Finely, mind. Too big an' it's hard to chew, see."

"How do ye even know all this?" Silvertongue ventured to ask, as he dumped a few fingers into a large, boiling cauldron from which spewed the most foul-smelling concoction to ever greet the hare captain's nose.

"Comes with age." She replied evasively, the smile on her wrinkled face sending shivers through all present. "Ah _hare,_ yer ready! Lookin' very verminous indeed."

"As do you, wot."

Sick-Eyes shook her head despairingly. "Deathglare, teach 'im how to talk right." She sniffed. "An' stink 'im up a little, I can smell the flowers all over 'im." Addressing the remaining slaves she smiled widely. "Why don't ye lot go an' have a little lie down in the corner over there? Relax a little. Give each other massages an' the like. Don't worry, S'long as yer with me ye don't have to worry 'bout any other slavers."

Still shivering in fright they nodded and huddled in a corner. Some used paws and ears to cover their faces, others watched in morbid fascination as Flayface was reduced to soup.

Deathglare, who had been unsuccessful in removing his bindings, and publicly humiliated by the tale of his torture made his way over to the foxhare. At his approach, the hare stirred guiltily.

"No hard feelings ole chap, eh? Fresh start, clean slate and all that. What do you say, wot?"

"It's 'ye' here. Yerself. Ye lot. Yer face. Not you. If you want to pass for vermin you had better start sounding like one."

"Ye don't use 'ye', do ye Death? Wot? How about that?"

"Better." The pine marten muttered begrudgingly.

"Why not old cha- mate? Why don't ye use 'ye's matey? Ye had better talk right or we'll boot ye te Hellgates, wot."

"Impressive. But ditch the wots."

"Answer the bloody question ye dummy! Wo- wot's wrong with yer?"

"Does it matter?" Deathglare hissed, growing annoyed slightly. "Take the accent down a notch but be ruder. 'Dummy' is for children. You're a slavemaster. Think like one. You want to reduce me to tears. What is the most effective technique?"

"Kickin' that sorry arse of yours all the way te yer bloody mother so ye can cry yer eyes into 'er. Sorry I tortured ye, but a beast what wants to live 'ad better not trust every idiot what 'e stumbles by. Sorry I ain't sorry. Now pull that stick out yer bumhole before I shove it in even deeper!" The hare cleared his throat. "What have you got to say about that?"

Deathglare was torn between being impressed and hating the Captain for all the barreling. In the end he conceded. "You sound like a fox. But it's 'ass' not 'arse', lose the 'r'."

"Sound advice ole chap. Now shake paws and let bygones be bygones."

Deathglare frowned at the hare's outstretched paw. "I'd rather not."

"Come on me matey. Sacrifices be a necessity of livin'. Everybeast makes one or two."

Deathglare turned and walked away resolutely. "And what, pray tell, did you sacrifice, when you robbed me of all dignity?"

One-eye lifted him by the back of the collar. Nobeast turned his back on him. "I wasn't jokin' ye know? That stick can go a hellofalot deeper!"

"Our fox is ready." Deathglare declared with clear resentment. One-eye dropped him.

"Good coz the soup's nearly done too. Just need to add the stummick!"

Both hare and marten grew dizzy and uncomfortably green.

"An' another thing. He ain't ready till this is hangin' out his tush!" Sick-Eyes held up a neatly cut-off fox tail.

Deathglare recovered enough to pat the hare jovially on the back. "Let's see how deep _that_ can go. Otter." He waved over a slave. "Help our good hare here with his tail."

* * *

Lunch was five minutes late. That was not the only anomaly Longclaw noted. Flayface was the one delivering it to him. Normally it was some unrecognisable slave he could torment merely by his presence. Fear was the most intoxicating sensation and his slaves were full to the brim with it. If he so much as stretched his claws or yawned they would shiver, most likely due to the size of his natural weaponry. There were other times however, when he got more creative. An otter had pissed himself once, after the king had commented in a low voice that the soup was cold. He'd then chopped off a finger as punishment for sullying his halls.

The fox strolled forwards with a spring in his step- as if excited by something, yet his tail was dragged along the ground behind him as if sad. A large bowl of steaming hot soup was precariously balanced in his paws. That same fox had the audacity to come within five feet of him. The King's bodyguard, a pale white fox with a scarred eye who went by Spitteeth caught him by the tunic.

"Where do you think you're going?"

"Te deliver lunch you uncultered- ye ugly white-faced son of a cow!"

"What'd you call me?"

"Spitteeth. Be still. Let him go. Flayface has been loyal to me for a long time now."

Grudgingly, the bodyguard let go of the masked fox.

"Now Flayface. I am honoured that you brought me lunch personally."

"No honor yer majesty, just doin' my civic duty wo- wot my mother told me te."

 _He must be planning something. Poison in the soup no doubt._ Flayface had tried it before. It had killed a mutual friend Longclaw no longer remembered the name of.

"Such a hard worker. You must be famished. Please, help yourself." He pointed at the soup and ignoring the impatient grumble of his belly, silenced the fox's protests. "You are my oldest friend. Of course it is good enough for you. Spitteeth, ensure that he eats his fill."

The soup had been poisoned. Flayface tried to squirm away but was unable to- the pale fox was stronger. A spoonful of soup was shoved into his mouth and the fox's jaw clamped shut.

"Now chew." Commanded Longclaw.

Flayface did as he was bid, his one good eye bulging.

 _I'll need a new slavemaster. Clogg took the best one south..._

"And swallow."

This last order took forever to be carried out, but in the end Flayface did as he was bid and with a gulp that echoed throughout the hall, swallowed.

Spitteeth dropped the fox to the ground, where he coughed heavily. But to Longclaw's surprise he stood up straight, apparently no worse for wear.

"Hot, that soup is your highness. Too rich for my stomach I'm afraid wo- wot did you think I put in?"

The wolverine nodded at his bodyguard, who took a spoonful of soup for himself. This was to make sure Flayface had not taken an antidote before coming. Spitteeth was a good fighter and loyal, but he was expendable.

"Anything wrong with it?"

"No your grace. It is good soup, with an unusual meat." The white-furred one turned to the masked one. "Pike?"

"Nope. Haha. I'd need a good strong beast like ye to catch one of those."

Longclaw slurped up the soup greedily. Being King was hard and required patience- something he had yet to master. The soup was exquisite. Whole and salty, yet not overly so. Hot enough to make his blood shiver, but not enough to burn. Lightly spiced and topped with tiny herbs. And the meat. A flavour he had never encountered before yet could not get enough off.

"The slaves have outdone themselves." He decided. "Spitteeth shall bring me plenty more. And my compliments to the chef. Pray, what meat _is_ this? Not a foul or fish it's- well what is it?"

Flayface paused for a while but spoke before Longclaw got the chance to guess. "The chef's already here te hear ye sah- yer high an' mightiness. Nasty weasel kept tryin' te stir trouble in the ranks. Figured 'e was fat enough to be put te good use. Plenty more where 'e came from too! Lots of troublemakers need to be dealt with." Flayface devolved into nervous chuckling.

Another pause followed his words, wherein Spitteeth stared at his King, unsure if feeding him another beast was considered poison or not. But then Longclaw smacked his paws together and gave a great booming laugh that echoed throughout the halls and made the skulls shake in their place.

"Flayface, forgive me. I should have known you to be the wise beast you are. You have the right of it. Clean up the trouble-makers, a few less slaves won't hurt anybeast." The wolverine belched rather loudly and then burst into more laughter, looking very much like a more-sadistic, grown up version of his resented fifth son. "I daresay they'll be put to better use here." He slapped his stomach, showing off many long, sharp claws.

"Of course you-yer majesty."

* * *

Fleetfoot was glad to be out of the King's company, both so that he could empty his stomach out the nearest window, and because Longclaw was a frightening beast. Brave though the hare was he'd seen badgers reduce creatures to mincemeat. And badgers were creatures of peace. The wolverine was larger than him, and larger even, Fleetfoot was certain, than Lord Umber. His teeth were large enough to make daggers- perhaps not for a hare, but certainly for mice or shrews, and his claws, the few unsheathed inches he'd seen of them anyways, were sharper than the quills on a hedgehog. Any one of them would have found slitting a throat easy, trivial even! Standing against a creature like that was not brave so much as it was foolish.

He'd been so wracked with nerves that his accent had slipped several times, but luckily the savage hadn't noticed. He'd been a bit distracted by the potential for poisoning as well as the apparently delicious flavour of his slavemaster- the one who's clothes One-Eye now wore. A shiver passed through the hare's spine. No doubt the King would find hare to be just as delicious if it ever came to that. Hopefully it didn't.

He reached the kitchens now, and although bound, his long, sensitive ears picked up the distinct sound of scurrying and desperate scrambling. Fleetfoot entered and a huge sigh of relief spread through the slaves, who dropped back to the ground.

"So…" Silvertongue began, his face splitting into a pointed grin. "Did his highness like the soup?"

"Very much." Replied the Captain, shutting the door behind him.

"Weasel?"

"He asked about the meat. I said it was a troublesome slave. He thought it was a great idea. Says weasel's exquisite, wot. I can't say I share his sentiments." He pulled at the fake tail and breathed a sigh of relief as it came loose from where the young otter had tied it to his own. Removing the skull and mask was just as euphoric, but nothing compared to the relief that came with stretching his cramped ears.

"Ye weren't meant te eat it hare."

"Y-yes w-well cir-c-cumstances-"

Sickletail chuckled, until she noticed the pality of his face. Then she exploded into laughter. "Oh my seasons!"

Others laughed as well, though Deathglare did not. The pine marten picked up the skull and tail where Fleetfoot had dropped them. He patted the hare almost consolingly. "Sometimes sacrifices are necessary, wouldn't you agree… old chap?"

"Most _certainly_." Was the hare's stiff reply.

"Well good job hare!" Sick-Eyes declared. "Well done ye lot! Ye've gotten away with murder. Have a cookie! Go on have a cookie." She pointed at a large jar of freshly baked delights. Hesitantly the kitchen slaves made their way over to it. "An' Silver hand me yer paw. I'll have it right as thunder 'fore next season."

"So... How're we escaping?" Asked the missing-fingers otter as he nibbled at a sweet biscuit.

"Simple. We die." Sick-Eyes stuffed her mouth with dried leaves and chewed to build up excitement. The old creature spat the paste directly onto Silvertongue's paw hard enough to make the weasel wince. "Flayface 'ere is slavemaster. What's stoppin' him from puttin' all the slaves in one ship an' sailin' away? Well Longclaw'd come after 'im, wouldn't he? Unless all them other boats don't work. So how do we break all the boats?"

"Cut the sails?"

"Break the rudders?"

"Burn 'em?"

Sick-Eyes shook her head ruefully. "Kids these days." She muttered, ignoring Silvertongue's pathetic squirming as she tightened a piece of cloth round his paw. "We can't break 'em if we're stuck here, all accounted for. So we preten' ter die, hide out in the ships and break all but the biggest 'un. Then somebeast causes a diversion an' we all sail away. King Stupid keeps 'is castle and we get all his slaves."

"We _liberate_ all his slaves." Fleetfoot corrected icily. "It's an ambitious plan."

"But ye like it?" The old marten patted Silvertongue's bandaged paw, ignoring the weasel's whines.

"Well… better then leaving so many poor souls behind but…"

"Details come later hare! Now yer with us, ain't ye?" She spat on her paw and stretched it towards him. Hesitantly he took it in his own. They shook paws once.

She spun on her heels, satisfied with the day's work. "Now who wants a story?"

One-Eye found Deathglare nudging him gently.

"We should check on your mouse."

"Huh, didn't think you'd get so attached to us, wot. Weren't you all serious-faced and angry a short while ago?"

The pine marten scowled. "Do not fool yourself hare. I still loathe you just as much as ever." He glanced at Sick-Eyes, who now began to weave a tale of woe and treachery and waves as high as mountains for her enraptured audience, most of whom hadn't heard a good story in years. "But I hate her stories more."


	41. Thank Ye and Goodbye

**A/N: Dear Abrahem,**

 **Yeah, Redwall proportions are confusing (the TV show makes this worst because it's a visual medium). I tend to imagine them as realistically as possible, while also accounting for the fact that Fret should technically tower over all his peers (and everyone that isn't an otter or badger). I mean he's tall- but not *that* tall. So yeah.**

 **And yeah, those two names always trip me up. I'm pretty sure that Roseheart's the mole and Rosebrush is Momchillo's mommy, but that took forever to figure out.**

 **I liked Mattimeo a lot because unlike most of the books it's a direct sequel. To the original book no less! I loved that Slagar was actually Chickenhound all grown up and the 'kids get kidnapped by slavers who the grownups promptly chase after' is a plot I liked so much I ended up stealing it (though also changing it up a bit). And I liked Vitch- plain and simple, yeah he was a bit annoying (but I based Sharpfur on him so not too much) but he didn't deserve what happened to him. And he was funny!**

 **If I do choose to reintroduce Sharpfur's siblings then I have got some ideas for it. But I also don't want to overswell the final act. So we'll see about them appearing in person- BUT, we will see more of them through Sharpfur and Greyclaw. Flashbacks are going to be everywhere soon…**

 **And I *like* the long reviews. Any and all reviews are good, but it's easier to respond to longer ones. Plus it shows that you're willing to spend time typing them out and that's dedication and… thanks a bunch!**

 **That doesn't mean everyone has to leave long ones- reviews are your personal thoughts and feelings/hopes/predictions, it's as long as you need it to be to write everything you want to write.**

 **Alright, thanks. If I ever do need help I'll say so.**

 **That's a… pretty good idea… though a necessary question for that scenario would be who killed her and *why*? The idea was that nobeast save the Honest Bunch know who she really is- so Clogg (implied but never shown to be the one who attacked them) would ironically be putting to death the one beast he wanted (Marik's heir). I don't feel bad about saying this since some things have changed so I'm not really spoiling anything.**

 **Sebias of Redwall, not sure if he wears shoes. I think I left character clothing rather vague. Are they even wearing anything? Do animals have to? (In Kung Fu Panda yes, but Redwall has different rules…) I don't know.**

 **I think interspaced arcs will ultimately be more beneficial (since I can use the great escape as a semi-climax for Book II)**

 **Personal opinion but characters are my fortee (best part of my writing)**

 **I say nothing about the last thing. It's a possibility… but I know not for when.**

 **And now we head back to everyone's favourite weasel (I think).**

Sharpfur had changed, Hawthorn realized one morning with a jolt. The weasel's consistent meanness had hidden this for a while, but it was hard to miss now.

The spectacles he had resented so much were now his constant companions. He did not wear them per se, but they always seemed close to paw. Dangling from his claws or being twirled around. He could read now, fluently, and in fact seemed to enjoy doing so. He never volunteered for it, but no longer complained when he was inevitably chosen. He helped in the kitchens, without protest. He brushed his teeth every morning and evening. He occasionally said 'please' and 'thank ye'.

Sharpfur was still rough around the edges, but on the whole he was a brand new weasel. Had she not seen him before and heard that once upon a time he'd been an underaged thug she wouldn't have believed it.

The vole herself was in an excellent mood. The snow had at last melted and Spring had come in full. Birds tweeted from invisible treetops. Flowers bloomed and blossomed and shook their rainbow-coloured petals in light, gentle breezes. Everything was perfect and wonderful. And best of all, now that the snow was gone, the journey home loomed on the horizon. Redwall and all within it would soon hear of her and Grollo's exploits.

Her mood dropped slightly upon entering the dining room, where her companions were looking particularly sullen.

Grollo had been so for a while now. Ever since the trip to the strawberries the young hedgehog had somehow convinced himself that they wouldn't get home. That some great calamity stood in their paths.

 _"You're being ridiculous." She had said, sounding exactly like the Badgermum did. "Of course we'll get home."_

 _"Not if that witch has a say in it." Said Sharpfur darkly, returning to his vermin roots. "I've heard stories ye know. Seers and hags that fattened up children so they could eat them alive. Hantel and Gretsel or somethin' like that."_

 _"She's not a witch." Hawthorn said coldly. "That's not a very nice thing to say. You slept under her roof. Ate the food from her table-"_

 _"'Coz she wants te eat me!" The weasel snapped._

 _"That's a little much." Grollo conceded. "But he's right about some things, and that old lady isn't going to let us leave."_

 _"That old lady is a sensible creature who knows that travelling through snow is hazardous! What if we got caught in a storm, eh? You two are both being ridiculous. And when we get back to Redwall you can both fess up and apologize!"_

 _"Te who?"_

 _"To her stupid!" Hawthorn got up from the soft chair, no longer satisfied with her company. "I expected better from you Grollo." And with that she stormed off to bed._

 _"Humph, expectin' better from the woodlander. Typical." Grollo was unsure as to whether Sharpfur was angry, hurt or unaffected. Nicer though he was the weasel was still an enigma._

 _"If only we could prove it to her." The hedgehog sighed longingly. "Then we could get home sooner."_

 _"Proof…" Sharpfur seemed to be mulling something over. "If only we could get some of that." He had said at last._

"Good morning." Said Hawthorn, taking her seat opposite them. Neither responded.

Sharpfur was tearing apart a loaf of bread he had no intention of eating, and Grollo was aimlessly stirring his porridge. "Is something wrong?"

"Yes." The weasel said flatly, shoving aside the neat slices of bread. "We're stuck here for good."

"Not this again…" The vole rolled her eyes. These two were probably doing this on purpose.

"Oh it's this again alright." Grollo sat up. "No more snow. No more excuses- but what do we get but another excuse? 'It's still chilly'. So what if it's chilly? I want to go home."

"So do I Grollo but-"

"But nothing. Every time it's the same thing. She's not taking us anywhere because of the weather or the pies or because she's feeling ill. This can't be a coincidence."

"Prove it! Okay? I am sick and tired of your theories. She has been nothing but nice to you, for no good reason I might add. How many creatures let strangers into their homes for as long as she has?"

"Any decent folk-"

"Well if she's decent she's not-"

"A liar?" Interjected Sharpfur.

"And what, _pray tell_ , did she lie about?" Hawthorn frowned at him.

The weasel tapped his glasses. "One of my good friends has just the thing ye need', it's what she said, right? Well fun fact, we're the only four beasts on this here island."

"Island?"

"Piece of land in the middle of wat-"

"I know what it is!" The vole snapped. "But who says we're on an island?"

"I do."

"Proof?" She asked cooly. Sharpfur gave no reply. "I thought not."

"Hawthorn-" Grollo protested, but Hawthorn gave him no leeway. She was tired of this rubbish.

"Save it! I've heard it all. But the truth is you're both jumping to conclusions. Now pass the jam."

"What if I gave ye proof?" Sharpfur had a strange smile on his face. Hawthorn did not like it.

"I'd like to see you try." She snapped, siezing the jam herself.

To her and Grollo's surprise the weasel stood up and scuttled over to the halfway, where he began to sniff at the coat rack. "Nope. Not this one. Not that one. No. Nah. Aha!" He practically dove into an overly large one Hawthorn remembered he had worn once. To her surprise he came out, holding two books and a piece of paper against his chest. His eyes darted around, as if to make sure nobeast else was looking. And then he slammed his evidence onto the table.

A claw was jabbed at the parchment- which landed facing upwards- and revealed itself to be a map.

"We're on an island." Sharpfur announced, unable to contain a smug grin. "Go on, say I'm bein' ree-dick-you-less."

"So we're on an island." The vole conceded.

"Told ye so!"

"That doesn't prove anything though! Just because we're on an island doesn't mean we're not going to leave eventually."

"What about the books?" Demanded Grollo- surely Sharpfur's evidence was worth something.

The weasel himself put down that theory. "They're both diarrheas. Nothin' te help our case hedgepig."

"You mean diarrys." Hawthorn corrected, spreading jam over a slice of a nutbread.

"It's what I said, wasn't it?"

"But…" Grollo was at a loss for words. He'd been hoping that Sharpfur had something substantial, but the old parchments seemed worthless now.

"But nothing." And Hawthorn chewed away at her breakfast, happy in the knowledge that both her companions were witless buffoons who would one day most certainly apologize for all their back-chatting. Well… Grollo would for sure. She wasn't sure whether or not Sharpfur had progressed to that level yet.

Grollo however, was not satisfied and snatched up the diaries. He flicked through the first one and was disappointed when he found nothing of interest.

The second one he went through more slowly. Sharpfur had found the map within this particular piece of literature… however he hadn't actually been bothered to look through it himself.

Slower now, but still rapidly, the hedgehog flicked through it, going ever slower the further on he went, until he finished it, his face pale.

Sharpfur was watching with keen interest and trying to read over his shoulder (the quills and the fact that Grollo read quicker than he did made this especially challenging). Hawthorn though, was gradually making her way through slice after slice of jammed bread. She was on her fifth when the diary fell from Grollo's paws.

"Hey! I was tryin' te read that!"

Ignoring Sharpfur's protests the hedgehog handed the diary to Hawthorn.

"Read this!"

"But _I_ wanted te read it!"

Harrumphing, the vole stuffed the sandwich into her mouth and began to flick through the pages.

Hissing in frustration Sharpfur tried to read over her shoulder- to less success as she was faster than even Grollo.

' _Dear Diarry,_

 _Something terrible happened today. I was playing by the river with Spike when I fell into the water. I nearly drowned but a froggy saved me. He seemed very nice at first but he scared Spike. And then he did something that hurt a lot and Spike told me to run. So I went to get dad and he went and he took an axe with him. Mum says he'll be back but if he isn't we're going to go looking for him. And Spike. I need your help diarry. I want Spike and dad to come home.'_

The story shook Hawthorn to the very core, it did not take somebeast as bright as her to fill in all the gaps.

"This still doesn't prove anything!" She snapped, shoving the book away. Sharpfur growled and promptly snatched it up- his spectacles at the ready.

"It proves she's hiding something!" Grollo snapped.

"Creatures see what they want to see." Hawthorn shot back. "You don't even know if it's hers!"

"Dear Die-Ari." Began Sharpfur out loud- mostly because he could read quicker if he _said_ the words. "Something terrible happened two-day. I was playin'- playing by the river with Spike-"

Something shattered behind them and all turned to see the kindly hedgepig, her paws shaking. A shattered jug of greensap milk lay forgotten at her feet.

Sharpfur stirred guiltily. "I- er- it's just somethin' I- er found-"

"I know you're frustrated." She said, struggling to put words together. Her eyes seemed to be staring at something far away- something that was not really there. "B-but-"

"We're sorry." Said Hawthorn nervously. She snatched up both books and the map. "It was wrong to go snooping around. I tried to tell them-"

"No, don't be silly. It's only natural. You want to go home." Here she hesitated and silence held the room still for what felt like forever. "B-but- it's not safe!"

"It's not." Hawthorn agreed. "But we have to go back."

The older creature shook her head mournfully. "N-no. Nobeast ever comes back. D-dad never came back. Neither did Spike. And mum didn't either. An-and-" She burst into tears. "The frogs took them." After a good few minutes of sobbing she managed to pull herself together. "I-i-it's safe here. Nobeast'll hurt you. And you'll always have a roof and f-food and- and you'll be safe."

"Will you or will you not take us to Redwall?" Grollo demanded, so viciously that even Sharpfur scratched the back of his head awkwardly.

There was another long pause.

"It's not safe." Was her stiff reply.

Grollo- all manners and good behaviour forgotten, slammed his paw against the table in frustration. "Then you're no better than the frogs!"

"Grollo!" Hawthorn snapped- aghast. "How can you say something like that?"

"I've got a father! I've got friends! I've already got a home! And is going home too much to ask? Is it?"

"Grollo!" Hissed the young vole, just as the old hedgepig dissolved into tears.

"What!?" He roared. "Can't you see?" He too had tears in his eyes, but he still sounded more angry than sad. "We'd have been back by now if she wasn't such a-"

"Grollo!"

Ignoring all present, the young hedgehog stormed away from the breakfast table.

Hawthorn followed him, her mind set upon beating some sense into him.

That left Sharpfur with the crying hedgehog. Still, he had some experience with crying beasts. Greyclaw had always been soft- if he had half a hair for every time Blizzard or Heartrip had reduced their little brother to tears he'd have been a pillow. 'He don't really mean it.' He had always said. And that was what he said now.

"He doesn't really mean it." Stepping over the spilled greensap, the weasel carefully put his paw round her shoulder. "Yer a lot better than frogs. I've never met a frog. But Gulash said they tried to eat him once. So he crushed their skulls in."

The hedgehog shivered and Sharpfur was made aware that this method of comforting was not effective on the soft-hearted woodlanders.

"But would a frog teach vermin like me the elf-a-bet? Thought not." He eased her gently into a chair. "Just rest easy. An' don't worry. Nobeast'll make ye leave if ye don't want to."

"It's not safe." She sniffled and Sharpfur handed her a tissue.

"I know it ain't." _But we can look after ourselves_.

"You will go in there and you will apologize!" Hawthorn demanded.

"No I will not! She's been holding us captive all winter! And don't deny it. You know I'm right."

"We're not her captives." Hawthorn hissed, her paws clenching into fists.

"We're her _guests_?" He paused to let the words sink in properly. "Isn't that what the vermin said?"

"Did she tie us to a mast?"

"She might as well have!"

"Easy woodlanders." Sharpfur entered, looking smug. "We'll get te yer Abbey. No need te panic now an' lose yer heads."

"We're not panicking." Hawthorn snapped.

"When are we leaving?" Grollo demanded, ignoring the glare the vole shot at him.

"Leave the last part te me. But first, we gotta let this die down a little. She wants the bests fer us. But we ain't ever gonna leave this place with her."

"So we just abandon her?" Hawthorn raised her paws in frustration. "Didn't you hear what happened? You want to just vanish on her? She's already lost her whole family!"

"So have I!" He snapped and the air seemed to chill. "An' we don't vanish, ghosts vanish an' we ain't ghosts yet. We leave a note. We explain. We say thank ye, and yeah, we go. An' we say that if she ever grows a backbone she's always welcome at Redhall-"

"Redwall."

"Same thing. But we say we liked her cookin' an' that she was nice an' that I'll always keep her spectacles."

Grollo stared at him with a kind of wonder Sharpfur did not like.

"Or somethin', ahem, soppy like that. So when she reads it she's both happy an' sad. But not now. We leave when I'm ready. Deal?"

"Deal." Said Grollo instantly.

"No." The vole hissed. "If we're on an island then we need a boat. And seeing as we don't have that we can't disappear into thin air. So we'll stay and convince her to take us to Redwall. And she can stay too. Living alone all these seasons, it's unhealthy."

"Alright." Grollo agreed before Sharpfur could cut her off. "You can try and convince her. And when you fail we'll be here."

Hawthorn growled and stormed off. She would prove them wrong if it was the last thing she did.

Yet this was soon proven to be easier said than done. The vole waited until the awkwardness of the next few days subsided. But it seemed her target was avoiding her. She was always there, yet at the same time conveniently never there. A week passed, and each day Sharpfur grew more and more smug whilst Grollo grew grumpier and grumpier. Then, borrowing an idea from Sharpfur, she woke up early one morning and made her way to the kitchen.

The old hedgepig smiled at her as she entered. "It's a little early for breakfast darling."

"Oh no." Hawthorn barely managed to stiffle a yawn. "I'm here to help. Can't sleep so I might as well put my paws to good use." The vole picked up a ladle and watched with drooping eyelids as it slipped through her fingers.

"It's alright dear. You don't have to." A gentle paw lead her to a chair. "Here, just sit still."

"Can we go to Redwall?" Hawthorn asked suddenly. Perhaps it was because she was tired. Or because she had grown frustrated by her lack of progress.

"D-dear. I- you know it's not safe."

Hawthorn nodded. "But if you were with us… well, Redwall can't be too far. We're still in Mossflower aren't we?"

"Well, I've never been to Redwall. So it may be a little longer than usual. An- and it's not safe."

"But we're being looked for. The Log-a-log and the Skipper and the Long Patrol and Bella-"

"And when they come they can take you to Redwall." The hedgehog explained gently. "But I'm an old creature and it's not safe outside. You saw Sharpfur's back when I first found you. And cannibals too. It's simply not safe."

And it was at that moment that Hawthorn realized that her companions were right.

Grollo took her surrender well. He smiled and patted her back. "I knew you'd come around."

Sharpfur was more annoying. "Took ye long enough. But it's good ye admit yer mistakes. Oh an' before I forget. I told ye so!"

Hawthorn frowned, but the weasel did not stop and pointed at Grollo.

"An' I told ye too! I was right from the very beginnin'. Told ye so! Told ye so! Told ye so!"

"Fine. You were right." The vole conceded. "Now when are we leaving?"

"Why don't ye shout that a little louder, eh? We go when I _say_ we do."

Grollo opened his mouth to say something but the weasel cut him off.

"An' ye don't need te trust me te know that I want out more than the both of ye."

Everything seemed normal. As it had been all winter. They had a sumptuous lunch. Sharpfur had a few quick lessons and then the weasel read a story. It was about 'Klunky the Scrooge' and his ill-fated attempt at taking 'Redvall' from 'Massias the Warrior' and culminated with a violent death by bell. There was dinner and then Sharpfur asked for some paper and a crayon. The weasel spent much of the afternoon working on it, whatever it was he claimed it was a 'surprise' and took it with him to bed. The old hedgehog tucked them in and wished them goodnight.

Yet none slept. Sharpfur was working furiously on whatever he was writing and the other two stared into space, dreaming of escape and home and everything they missed about Redwall.

Then, a few minutes short of midnight, Sharpfur shoved a paper and the crayon at Grollo. "Yer turn hedgepig. Write somethin' nice."

"Huh?"

"The note. Remember, so she don't get a heart attack?"

"Oh." The hedgehog took the items handed to him. "What did you write?"

"None of yer business innit."

Hawthorn had already taken Sharpfur's note and, in a near perfect imitation of the weasel's voice, read it in a loud whisper.

"Dear hedgepig, Ye may have never taught me yer name, but ye taught me a lot of things. I didn't like learnin' the squiggles or brushin' me teeth or bathin'- but ye were kind te me so I thank ye. The spek-takles I'll keep till I'm a ghost in Hellgates. Yer weasel, Sharpfur. Aaaaaaw!" Hawthorn put the note down. The same weasel had gone a shade of red that would have put cherries to shame. "That's so sweet."

"It ain't sweet!" Sharpfur snapped, determined to hold onto what little verminicity he had left. "I said I didn't like half the hell she put me through!"

"But in a nice way." Hawthorn put the note gently down on Sharpfur's bed. The weasel was glaring at her- and seemed determined to tear it to shreds now, but the vole would not let him. "And that's a _good_ thing. Now pass the crayon, I'll write mine on the back of yours."

Hawthorn's note was not much longer, though her paw-writing was neater. She thanked the old lady for everything she'd done and assured her that the three would be safe and always remember her.

"Ye woodlanders are all so soppy."

"You must be part woodlander then."

Sharpfur looked stricken. Then he glared. "I ain't soppy!"

"Shush before you wake her up." Grollo chided, passing them his own note. It was by far the longest but more of the same. Both sheets of paper were neatly placed upon the folded blankets.

"I hope she doesn't get sad." Hawthorn murmured.

"I hope she don't get angry."

"Let's go."

The door opened with a creak, but from then on there was only silence. The trio tip-pawed past the empty table and the bookshelves. Past all the coats and into the cold hallway.

Sharpfur's claw unlocked the front door with ease and a soft 'click'.

Here they hesitated. The hut was safe and warm. Nobeast knew what lay in the darkness outside, except for the promise of home. Home that was somewhere not far, yet also so far away.

Silently, the vole, hedgehog and weasel vanished into the darkness.

* * *

 _Footnote: I hope the leaving bit didn't feel too rushed or out of nowhere. I've been kind of building up to this in all the previous Sharpfur-in-education chapters but not sure how well it was pulled off. Regardless there was plenty-ish foreshadowing for the old hedgehog lady (who we shall see more of... And needs a name) and her backstory. Those amongst you with X-ray vision and photographic memory are probably jumping to all sorts of conclusions right now... but all that for later._

 _Next up Threeclaw and Matiya..._


	42. The Spring-Winter Nameday

**A/N: Yeah, as fun as educating Sharpfur was, them leaving is really going to crank up the pacing and is therefore a necessity.**

 **Abrahem, He was always pretty smart (and because he knows the outside world better than the sheltered abbey youth, he's the first to figure out that something's up with her. I think compassion is the greatest improvement in him. The way he comforts the old hedgehog and the notes plan. Etc**

 **Yeah, shouldn't be too difficult. After all there are many possibilities.**

 **A nice idea, but it's kind of my headcannon that all vermin bottle up their emotions in order to not seem 'weak', which is why Greyclaw being so sensitive was also kind of a clue that there was more to him. Fret also kind of does this, but before this all happened he's never been around other vermin so he doesn't behave exactly like most of them (he's black AND white and that's a bad pun XD)**

 **That wasn't really what I was going for but in one story plan (not a spoiler since this one's really, really, really long abandoned, he'd have ended up Recorder… but he was also all grown up there so yeah) Though I like the idea… might even do it… And it's really fitting seeing as he is the closest to his father in appearance (both are the 'little ones' of their respective litters, and I know there are the babies, but pretty much all of them will probably end up taller than Sharpfur at some point… depending on how much time passes of course)**

 **This is also a rather important note, but the events of this chapter takes place a few days after the events of the previous one. You'll see why that's important in a bit.**

 **I don't know *where* I've earned this kill-crazy reputation (okay… there was that one time… and that other time… and that other… and yeah) but Sharpfur should be safe... For the time being...**

 **Also deadglim… is that the best you can do? Come on, *threaten* me. I get deathstars every Tuesday.**

 **Lord Demon, It wasn't bad. And I've written dark enough stuff for it to not make me uncomfortable per say, but it did strike me as rather different from this story tonally. I usually write a lot of magical stuff in my stories, but I also wanted Black and White to be a little distinct from my Kung Fu Panda works. See with Smothered In Pumpkin, I kind of have room to play with because the magical aspects of that are left to interpretation, like you don't know if it's 'real'. (But an Amazon Badger is kind of… not really Redwallian… or at least I can't imagine that in the context of Redwall)**

 **And the fact that he is a vermin raised by woodlanders, yet is brave, honest and quiet kind of defeats the purpose. Fret ends up as the mean, snappy (and insecure) ferret that he is, because he is a vermin raised by woodlanders. My take on vermin is that they naturally have heightened survival instincts which, when coupled with their usual lifestyle, creates the standard vermin (it's also why the vast majority are cowards). When coupled with prejudiced (subconsciously on most fronts, yes, but prejudice is prejudice, whether or not it's 'in-the-right' is another debate) woodlanders you get creatures like Veil (rude, rash, but not wholly 'bad') and Fret (who winds up better than the one he's based on because Constance is by far a better mother than Byrony, who does back him up, but also corrects him when he's wrong and also because he's younger).**

 **This story is mostly about that prejudice and (maybe, eventually) overcoming it. With a bit of adventure and my plethora of characters (and two seasons of travelling!) on the side.**

 **Plus, he seems like an interesting character in his own right. And one issue with interesting characters and cameos is that, while possible, would it really do the character justice, or would it just end up being filler?**

 **The issue is that it would either sidetrack the story (introducing characters isn't hard, but introducing a character with an entire plot worthy of his own story this late into Black and White is kind of… I don't know, out of left field?) Or be irrelevant (if I end up not touching upon him later on… then what's the point?)**

 **I *could* if you're interested, have him mentioned in dialogue.**

 **Eg, "Some bally stoat bigger than a badger going on about lizards and maidens, wot. Not pretty to hear sah! Uglier to repeat sah!" (Just an example)**

 **I could also perhaps use a version of him in Smothered in Pumpkin, but I'm also a bit hesitant in bringing wolves into the mix. My take on the world is that wolves and dogs and all sorts of other animals exist, just not in the land of Redwall (other continents for example) And because anthropomorphism isn't the same here as it is in other places (birds, mammals and reptiles and fish are all intelligent, but have their own distinct lifestyles and behaviour. Which also means that a mammal eating a bird isn't cannibalism but a mammal eating a mammal is) and are affected by natural instincts… but all that for later. I don't want to get too ahead of myself.**

 **Also, if you ever want to pick up a keyboard yourself… your writing's not bad- but when he's describing what the savages do I think you can cut out the 'most of their slaves are women part', unless that's an important plot point, because it does kind of make you look like 'steryeotypical fanfiction author'. And while there is a niche for that, you don't want to be a part of 'that crowd'.**

 **Either describe everything in more detail (I want GOOOORE!) or be deliberately vague so that the audience can come to their own horrific conclusions.**

 **So turn it more into something like 'A hundred vermin warlords have been overthrown by their slaves. Those who are taken by savages don't get that privilege. They beg for death when I find them… if they still have tongues to beg with…'**

 **Also, regarding character- building, if Savage Slayer has PTSD (implied I think) he's not likely to talk about it. So a more effective way of showing this is to perhaps, have another character hear him say 'please kill me' while he's muttering in his sleep or have him confide in a character he's grown close to over the course of the story.**

 **Just some advice for if/when you (or anyone else) decides to write him. So I don't think he can have a direct cameo here (at least not without cutting him down to nothing), but he can be mentioned (not too hard really) or he can appear in the Halloween special… coming the Halloween after I finish this story!**

 **Okay, now we head back to…**

* * *

"En garde mon copain!"

This was Threeclaw for 'I am about to lunge so quickly that my warning will be completely useless and I'll hit you anyways'. Of course, Matiya put up his token resistance, raised his stick, which Threeclaw's darted past before neatly landing between two of his ribs.

The squirrel lost balance, completely winded by the sudden attack, and landed squarely in a puddle of mud.

"You are becoming better." Threeclaw declared, stabbing his own stick into the soft ground so that he could use both paws to pull the dazed squirrel to his feetpaws.

This was either a genuine compliment or sarcasm. It was hard to tell with the stoat's accent.

"Yeah, nearly got your ear once." Matiya's paw traveled to where the wood had struck and winced at the twinges of pain.

"Another bruise?" Asked the albino. He spoke with a small frown but there was a mocking kind of laughter in his eyes.

"Like I'm not used to them." The squirrel retorted. And indeed he was used to them, sporting quite the collection himself. A small one on his left cheek, three divided along his sides, and, he suspected but didn't want to ask, a rather large one at the base of his tail.

"Perhaps we should be spending more time walking?" Threeclaw suggested, now beginning to twirl his rapier. "What would the abbeybeasts be thinking if they saw-" He jabbed quickly forwards, and halted the blade a milimetre away from his cheek. "That. And that one. And that one. And that other one." Now he began to spin around and point at all the bruises along the squirrel until, with a final poke of the squirrel's tail he finished. "And that one. Why! They'd be thinking I was beating you!"

"Well you were. But I hit you back."

The stoat gave a particularly smug grin. "And where, exactly, a vous tappe moi?"

"Here!" Matiya spun suddenly, and caught the unprepared stoat firmly in the stomach.

Threeclaw fell over, the blow having successfully knocked the wind out of him. By the time he had recovered, however, he was laughing.

"Tres bien mi amigo. Very unexpected." He rubbed at where the stick had struck. "But I am not remembering hitting you so hard."

Matiya helped the stoat to his feetpaws. "Well, desperate times, desperate needs. Should we restart?"

The stoat shook his head. "We've been hitting and kicking all morning. And we still have a river to find."

How they had not yet found the river was anyone's guess. Yet it had remained ever ellusive. The fact that they changed direction every day or two probably wasn't doing the pair any favours.

"And while we are walking." The stoat declared, sheathing the rapier. "You can tell me what is it you learned at the abbey." Here Threeclaw failed to surpress a snigger. "C'est obviously pas the art of war, but mayhaps it'll be funny."

"Well…" Matiya begun. He started a lot of sentences with 'well' these days. For one, it sounded a lot smarter than 'uhhhhh', which is what he wanted to say every time Threeclaw expressed curiosity in abbey life. From the cooking, to the history, to his friends… if the stoat was paying him any mind he probably knew a lot about Matiya. Far more than the squirrel knew about his own companion. But still, he saw no harm in telling the stoat. After all, he wasn't paying attention. "Well, sometimes we help out in the kitchen. We learn how to make pies and cakes and stuff. Sometimes somebeast takes us swimming. But mostly it's history. Abbot Martin likes to read the old books. The stuff our predecessors used to do."

"And what is it they did?" He did not sound particularly interested and was tossing and catching the rapier as if it were a simple stone, and not a pointed piece of flesh-piercing metal.

"Well." Matiya said again. "They ate. And there was usually some kind of riddle left behind by Martin the Warrior to solve. And fighting. Lots of that." The fighting was what Matiya remembered best, the only times he'd ever paid attention in class. He knew every warrior, every weapon, every duel and every grisly death. He had even tried to recreate them with his peers. Fret had never been particularly fond of it, and Grollo did not like the bruising, but Momchillo- despite considerably less skill- had been keen on it. The two had ran up and down the stairs and walls and kitchens, around the pond, along the grounds, across the orchard. Sticks clacking, faces laughing. If he had a nut for every time they had crashed into somebeast, the abbey could eat nutfarl for the next three seasons. A part of him now wondered if he'd see Momchillo again- but he surpressed that thought. Of course he would! Momchillo was back at the abbey now, playing with Grollo and teasing Hawthorn and… and missing him no doubt.

"Fighting." Threeclaw repeated, uncomfortable with the squirrel's sudden silence. "I heard that you abbeybeasts have a magic sword. Every vermin what touches it turns to ashes. Is it, as they say south of here, a fab-elle?"

"It never turned Fret to ashes." Matiya pointed out. "And he had to polish that thing once a week." The squirrel had never understood how that could possibly be a punishment, but Fret had hated it. Of course, polishing a sword that never got dirty was in and of itself a conundrum.

"Frettie wasn't exactly big on being vermin though."

"Well… I don't know." Matiya scratched the back of his neck.

Threeclaw shook his head in disappointment. "I would be thinking that you beasts call vermin vermin because they are being bad."

"Well we do. Vermin keep trying to conquer the abbey."

"Vermin or warlords?"

"Are they mutually exclusive?" This whole conversation was treading towards previously unknown paths, much like the creatures having it.

"Vous comprenez pas. You misunderstand. Is every creature what is trying to break your red walls, a vermin?"

"Well…" Now he was moving into dangerous territory. He did not want to offend Threeclaw, but at the same time felt the need to be honest. "Redwall was never besieged by mice." The young squirrel hoped and intended that to be the end of the discussion, but once more Threeclaw pressed on.

"But mice have besieged castles of their own."

"Yeah, but not for glory."

The stoat spun round and began to walk backwards. "And I was thinking freeing slaves was glorious."

"It is, but we never freed slaves for glory. We did it because it's the right thing to do."

"Exactement. But I am pointing at something else. Not every verminous creature that broke your abbey walls did it because it was doing la right thing to do."

It took Matiya several seconds to fully comprehend the statement. "Cluny the Scourge forced some vermin to join his horde." That was the only one he remembered, but he was sure there were more. "Is that what happened to you?" He asked abruptly, so suddenly had his question arisen, that the stoat- taken completely by surprise, fell over. "Were you forced to join the Honest Bunch?"

Threeclaw shook his head. "Squirrels are always jumping. Malheuresement you have landed on the wrong conclusion." Threeclaw got to his feet and spun around and that was the end of the conversation.

In silence now, the two tramped through the fresh greens of Spring, which was now in full bloom. This made foraging for food much easier, as an abundance of berry bushes provided enough nourishment for both, however, rainclouds were a rare sight and without any melting snow or icicles to suck on, hydration was proving far more difficult than it had been over winter. The only time it was in abundance, was when morning dew-drops dripped from the overhanging leaves.

Yet Spring had also come with more dangers. Winter meant that the world was asleep, blanketed in snow, they had been the only living things for miles around. Now, however, life was their constant companions. With blooming flowers came swarms of bees and hives filled and dripping with honey. Birds darted from branch to branch, singing their strange avian songs. For the most part, feathered creatures stayed away from those with fur, but on occasion an overly curious magpie would have to be chased off by a few well-placed prods of a rapier.

Spring had always been his favourite season. In Redwall it would mean finally being allowed out to play after a winter of biting cold winds, warm fires and stuffy classrooms. It meant longer days, fresh fruit and enough strawberry fizz to fill a lake. It meant that Abbot Martin would let them play in the sun more often than not and that their chores were minimised to the point of non-existence.

It also meant that it would soon be his nameday. How many seasons was he now? He raised a paw to count with, and promptly bumped into Threeclaw's back. The stoat's ears were swivelling left and right.

"What's wrong?"

"Shhhhh! Listen mi amigo."

Matiya grew still, his ears stiff. Then he heard it. The sound of rushing water.

A grin spread itself wide across Threeclaw's face, and Matiya soon found himself competing with him.

Wide-eyed, the pair advanced, until they reached the edge of the trees and a thin bank revealed itself to them.

"YES!" Matiya shouted, so loud that the nearby birds flew off suddenly with many an indigant squawk. The squirrel raced forwards into the river, the water was bitterly cold, but real! He raced back to the bank with another whoop of joy. Then he fell over, and rolling onto his back, laughed as hard as his lungs would allow.

Home, they were so close to home.

Remembering how thirsty he was, he made his way to the river and drank mouthfuls of the clear, fresh water.

There was a splashing to his side and Matiya turned round to see Threeclaw dragging what looked like a hairy ball of spikes, but what anyone who knew Grollo would know was a hedgehog.

Upon reaching dry land the ball began to uncurl, revealing a very pale old hedgehog. Her spectacles were askew and her apron in tatters, but otherwise she was only shaken.

"Woodlander!" Said Threeclaw, waving him over. "C'est ta grandmere!"

The squirrel wasn't sure what that meant, but came over.

Instinctively, the old hedgehog began to curl in on herself and emitted a whimper.

"Hey, hey, hey. It's okay. We're not going to hurt you." Matiya put on his most friendly smile. Threeclaw on the other paw, had grown disinterested and was cleaning around his claws with the point of his rapier.

"I- my name is Matiya." He stretched out a paw. "And I come from Redwall Abbey." He was made aware, rather brutally now in the presence of this stranger, that he needed a wash. Mud, dust, dirt, sweat- he was covered in so many layers of filth that it was a wonder his fur was still red.

She stopped whimpering abruptly, and hastily adjusted her spectacles.

"Redwall you say?"

"Yes. And er- this is Threeclaw." The stoat neatly waved his three-clawed paw. "He's from er- he's my sword… fighting… tutor."

"Threeclaw." The hedgehog repeated, as if she'd heard it before.

The stoat, with all the air and grace of one raised a gentlebeast, bowed, his paw flourishing in front of him before he neatly folded it behind his back. "Enchante madmoiselle."

"You, but of course." The hedgehog sat up abruptly. "I have heard much of both of you."

"You have?" Asked Matiya, then it occurred to him that he was still being looked for. No doubt somebeast had asked for him.

"Both of us?"

"Yes! Threeclaw! Sharpfur mentioned you."

"Sharpfur?" The pair asked incredulously. What had the little weasel been doing with this old creature?

"He's alive?" The stoat had a look of surprise that clashed viciously with the pride on his face. On the one paw Sharpfur was an undersized runt, though Threeclaw had taught him how to use a knife effectively, his survival had been unexpected. Especially considering he had been above deck at the time of the attack.

"Yes. And Grollo and Hawthorn."

A part of Matiya was relieved. His friends were alive. Another part of him, however was shocked. It was this side that spoke. "They're not back yet?" But it had been weeks! The poor friar! And the Badgermum, Hawthorn had always been her favourite.

Here the hedgehog stirred guiltily. "W-well. I-it's- I was scared!" She cried, her eyes beginning to tear up. "It wasn't safe! And Sharpfur had a burned back and, and Redwall's so far and I've never been- I've never left the island before and I thought it was best if- if they were safe and-" She was clutching her knees now and rocking to and fro along the ground.

Threeclaw neatly wiped away her tears with the point of his rapier.

"Shhhhh, relax. Breathe. Taking deep breaths now." Now he began to inhale and exhale and the hedgehog followed his lead until she was reduced to sniffles.

"Where are they now?" Matiya felt compelled to ask after a few minutes of awkward sniffling. He regretted his curiosity when the old hedgepig exploded into more loud sobbing.

Threeclaw gave him a mock-disgusted look which the squirrel responded to with a disgruntled one, before both attempted to calm down their new companion.

When she had recovered, she managed to answer. "They left. Took the boat and left. They said they were going to Redwall but… but it's not safe and-and-"

"Shhhhhh. It's alright. I connait Sharpfur. He can be looking after himself."

"Yeah." Matiya agreed. "Who knows? Mayhaps they're already at Redwall by now."

The old hedgehog sniffled. "B-but all alone an-and- they left in the dead of n-night and I didn't see any boats. Supposing they hit a r-rock-"

"Hawthorn can swim." Matiya said fiercely, refusing to believe for a second that any ill-fate could have befallen his friends… and their weasel companion he supposed. And he had thought he and Threeclaw were an unlikely pair!

"B-b-bu-"

"By the time we get to Redwall." Matiya declared, helping her to her feet. "They'll be stuffing themselves silly on more vittles than you can count." He dusted off her apron and took her shaking paw in his own, far more confident one.

"Speaking of the grand, red abbey. You don't happen to be knowing the way there, do you?" Threeclaw asked casually, as if he himself had a general idea but was otherwise uncertain.

"Oh, um, I think I do. There should be a path a little further upriver and that should take us up to their front gates. B-but I- I've never been there."

Threeclaw took her other paw in his whole one, his three remaining fingers twirling the rapier.

"I'm sure finding it will not be being too difficult."

* * *

"And so, Lutra's famous pearls were lost amongst the waves. Never again would the desire to possess them ensnare another creature's mind and soul. And the good beasts of Redwall returned to the abbey. The end." With an aching back and a pair of very sore buttocks after what felt like hours of sitting on the hard floor, Abbot Martin closed the book.

"It's over." Cheese sounded stricken. After many days of pleading with his sisters they had finally relented and allowed the old mouse to read to them.

"Thank Vulpuz." His sisters declared in unison. One removed the paws from around her ears.

"B-b-but what about Tansy?"

"What a stupid name." Snapped the oldest one. A clever trick had allowed Abbot Martin to tell the sisters apart now. He had conveniently 'dropped' a bow and a necklace one breakfast, and now he knew the weasels as Bow, Jewel and Fang. For the most part they hadn't complained about the names, although there had been a great deal of swapping and arguing at first.

"Tansy." Abbot Martin explained slowly. "Was in due course of time given the post of Abbess. Of course, some recordings say it was immediately upon Abbot Durral's return but such writings rarely have a credible source."

"Stupid abbotmouse, course ye can't eat a book."

"Credible. Not edible my child."

"I'm not yer child mouse!"

"I never said- oh no you misunderstood. Ahem, as Abbot of Redwall I am, technically speaking, the father of all creatures within this abbey."

The young weasels looked disgusted suddenly, and tried to get away from him.

"So how did ye give birth to a mole?"

The old mouse had to adjust his spectacles. "I-I- I beg your pardon?"

"If yer everybeast's daddy that means that mole what we stole's yer daughter. But yer a mouse."

"Oh, no! No, no, no. It's just a title. A formality. It's just a, er- a slip of the tongue. I'm not truly everybeast's father. Just- er, referred to as such."

"So ye didn't mate with a mole?"

"Of-of course not." The mouse replied, rather flustered.

Collectively, the weasels breathed a sigh of relief.

Remembering his other duties, the old mouse took his leave of them. And although they still threatened to rip him to pieces, and sometimes attempted to, he did not doubt that they were growing fond of him. Even if that fondness lay… very deep down.

He had called a meeting, the first since the children had been taken. Life in Redwall had to go on. And so, the seasons had to be duly named. Winter had gone unnamed due to circumstances beyond their control, but he could no longer ignore his duties. Spring was here and that too, had to be named.

He came into the Great Hall, expecting the whole abbey to be present, but instead found only a few faces. His successor to the post of Recorder, a bespectacled mouse now pacing furiously. Constance who looked as glum as ever. The Foremole and his daughter. And Bella.

"I-I- said tell everyone." The old mouse was shocked. For one of his summons to be so blatantly ignored...

"I did." The badger replied. "Rosebrush's busy. Mormont's looking after his wife. Apparently she's with child. That might brighten up the place." She did not sound particularly hopeful of this prediction. "Blind Agatha is ill. The Friar's cooking porridge. Again."

Abbot Martin clutched at his ears. "Onion porridge… what on earth has gotten into him?"

"He is convinced his son is dead." The Recorder answered impatiently. "Besides, nobeast has to do any actual work for that filth. The state of the abbey is quite frankly disastrous. Orchard's filled with fruit but not a soul's willing to pick them. Dust everywhere. Itchy bedclothes. I already proposed to you-"

"That I force everybeast to just move on. I am aware of that." The mouse rubbed at his forehead. "But as I said before grief is a wound that requires time to heal."

The Recorder harrumphed. "Everybeast's had quite a lot of time."

"Moibe iff'en 'ee 'ad a mizzin' dowter zurr, 'ee'd be a gruit bit more understandin'."

"Or maybe I'd be as lucky as you." The mouse replied, continuing to pace frustratedly.

"Shut up." Constance snapped at him. The subject of missing children was especially unforgiving on her, and the Recorder wisely paced in silence, lest he find himself on the recieving end of all her pent-up rage.

Abbot Martin cleared his throat before beginning. "Well if nobeast else will come we can start with the winter. What shall we name it?"

The Recorder was the first to give any suggestions. "The Winter of Snowy Sorrows. Or perhaps, the Winter of the Tear-Filled Snows."

"Burr aye, doin't be goin' tur dramatik."

"I'm not being dramatic!" The Recorder snapped. "Merely conveying the truth. We've had lots of snows and even more sorrows. Snowy sorrows."

"Perhaps it is a bit much. Any other ideas anyone?"

"Winter of the…" Bella frowned in thought, her face going a shade of purple underneath her black and white fur. "Disappearing Snowflakes." She replied with a sudden sniffle.

The abbot brought his paw to it's familiar spot on his temples.

"I have one." Said Constance very quietly.

"Alright." The old abbot braced himself for the inevitable impact of whatever she had to say.

"Well… it's not a name but... I- I thought we should make a feast."

"A what?" The Recorder sounded stricken. "You can't be serious. What could we possibly have to celebrate?"

"Mormont's baby for one. Spring for another." Constance answered, rather coldly. "I just thought it might help everybeast move on. This all started at a feast after all."

There was a long pause, broken by Roseheart.

"B'ain't a bad idea zurr. Oi'm thunking it could wurk."

The Foremole patted his daughter's head. "Clever goirl. Courzz it'll wurk. Everybeast been missing a gud feaist."

Abbot Martin thought this through for a second, and suddenly inspiration rushed through him. "That is a brilliant idea! Closure, yes, that is exactly what everybeast needs. And a feast. Yes, that has always been the solution, hasn't it?" Well… clearly nobeast had ever thought of a better idea, but if all the previous recorders were to be believed then it near-always worked. "It should be a surprise that- that way we can properly address the issue. And- and… we're going to need the kitchens."

* * *

 _Footnote: The conversation between Threeclaw and Matiya (always autocorrected to Mariya for some reason) will be more significant later on. You shall see. Eventually._

 _In hindsight I should have put this in 'All Rebellions Start In the Kitchens' too, if only for the convenient title. Credit is due where it's due- the season naming I'm not sure if it's in Redwall but Sebias of Redwall made a funny joke in connection to it in his own Redwallian epic which in turn inspired the Winter of Disappearing Snowflakes._

 _Okay dear readers, I have a job for you now. There are several side characters that we shall be seeing more of in the coming chapters yet I've never been too good with names. None of these guys will have character arcs per say, but instead of constantly referring to the Friar as Grollo's dad, I thought we could give him a name. So he needs one, so does the hogwife (Grollo's mum), and so does the Recorder I suppose. And the kindly hedgepig. So I need four names. And am lazy._


	43. Under Ice- Recap

**Review Responses: They're** **inherently similar (martially driven) characters from the get-go, and while 'opposite's attract' is a general rule of thumb it leads to a lot more friction. Yeah, I made some edits for clarification. The previous chapter takes place a short-ish (two or three days) while after Hawthorn, Grollo and Sharpfur made their exit. So they're not on her island, she's left it at this point in time.**

 **The Abbot knows them as Fang, Bow and Jewel because he conveniently 'dropped' a bow and a jewel (so presumably who's who can keep changing and the old mouse won't know the difference)). They don't really have given names (as I couldn't think of any).**

 **I kind of have a similar view in terms of real-life morality, but it's a bit harder to define the type of 'seed' people are because humans aren't conveniently divided by species.**

 **Fret at this point is less of a 'morally grey' character and more of a 'morally confused' guy, though… he can still get a whole lot worse… Though that is true. Black and white are easier colours to paint with.**

 **I like the names you all came up with so far, though thankfully I don't have to make any kind of decisions yet (phew, am I right?)**

 **I'm pretty sure you'll like the books. Rakkety Tam especially is quite good. It's 'the one with wolverines'.**

 **Alas, I do not. Cows, cats, dogs, by the dozen. And there's the local weasel and whatnot- but ferret's aren't that common in this part of the world. Which is a shame. I like ferrets.**

 **(And yeah, reviews inspire me)**

 **Alright, bit abrupt change of pace, but we're back North now. Enjoy**

Tall and sinewy, with the grizzled white fur of an old creature, the stoat stood before them. Clad in glimmering cloaks of shining scales, green, black, yellow and white. He stared at them through a piercing red eye, the other seemed to be in a perpetual loop- as if hypnotized. Strapped to his back was an enormous fang. Taller than Momchillo and wider than Fret, with all sorts of markings carved into it and a short handle of blackened wood. The stoat did a mocking sort of bow at the sight of their petrified faces.

"Greetin's. Snakeskin's the name, 'untin's the game."

Fret swallowed, his eyes glued to the newcomer's weapon. "H-hi." Too tired to run, let alone fight back, the two were entirely at his mercy.

"So, _bait_ , what brin's the pair of ye to my 'umble lair?"

"We're traveling." Momchillo replied cordially, also eyeing the giant fang.

"No supplies, sixty feet un'erneath a frozen lake, an' yer travellin'. If I didn' know any better I'd say ye were lost."

"We are." Fret agreed.

"We are not!" The mouse snapped. "We just got a little sidetracked-"

The stoat jabbed a finger at the slime-covered ferret. "'E got swallowed. More than a lil' don' ye think? But ye clearly know where it is yer goin'. So I'll just drag off this 'ere carcass and ye can be on yer ways." He turned and removing a smaller tool- apparently carved out of a snake skull, began peeling at the pure white scales of the dead serpent. Wordlessly, the two got to their sore feet and began to walk (or rather, stumble) away from the scene. Just as they were clambering over the boulder, Snakeskin spoke. "Unless yer 'ungry. I've got some nice thin's te eat if that's the case. More than 'appy te share."

Momchillo frowned in thought, ignoring Fret's frantically shaking paws. Well… if Martin had a plan for them it was most likely with this stoat. Besides, he was too tired to travel very far anyways. "Well… I'm a bit peckish." The mouse declared, walking back towards the stoat, but also remaining a fair distance away from him.

Fret, despite his growling stomach, had to wrestle down the urge to shout 'no'. Every instinct told him that this was a bad idea. Another stupid idea that would put them in danger.

But of course Momchillo didn't listen. And being exhausted himself, the ferret shuffled closer.

Smiling, but not saying a word, Snakeskin turned and strolled over to a wall of ice. A light shove pushed aside a thinner part of the wall to reveal a tunnel. "Guests firs'. Only polite, see."

"Yeah." Momchillo agreed, already regretting his decision. But, unable to think of an excuse he made his way into the tunnel. Fret expected something horrible and bloody to happen right there and then. Another boulder to drop and squash the dumb mouse. For the stoat to morph into a snake all of a sudden. But neither happened and Snakeskin tapped his footpaw impatiently along the ground.

"I 'aven't got all day ye know."

And with that reminder, (and a gulp he was sure echoed throughout the cavern) the ferret proceeded forwards.

It was even warmer in this tunnel and the ice seemed to be melting even- at the very least it was a good deal harder to keep balance. Halfway in and he slipped, and flopped pathetically onto his front. He debated for a short while whether there was any point in getting up again. He could barely move his feetpaws, they were lost and heading directly into certain danger. Wouldn't it be easier to just fall asleep now?

But before he had made up his mind, the stoat had placed him back upright.

"Watch yer step." He advised, unhelpfully.

They walked for a short while longer, until the tunnel opened up into a cavern carved into rock. For this Fret was glad, as he was sick of slipping on the ice. Alas, that was the only thing he was glad for. Lining the floors was an enormous rug, soft and warm and yet eerily made of fur. Here and there lay a collection of bone tools- snake skulls and ribs and teeth, and copious amounts of snakeskin cloaks.

Yet Momchillo, as usual ignoring all signs of danger, casually strolled over to a roaring fire and sat himself down besides it with a relieved sigh. Stretching his feetpaws precariously close to the flames in an attempt at thawing his toes, the mouse barely managed to surpress a yawn.

"Make yerselves at 'ome." The stoat commanded, shuffling over to a haphazardly made cupboard.

Fret did not exactly obey, at least not beyond sitting besides the fire- as far away from Momchillo as physically possible.

"'Ungry, are we travellers? Well don' worry, I've got pleny of vitl's. Ferret guts and rat brains, anybeas'?" He laughed at the sight of their suddenly-pale faces. "Is a joke. All I've got are snakes."

Palour did not immediately return to them upon this announcement. The appetites of both mouse and ferret seemed to vanish on the spot.

"C'mon, is not so bad." The stoat took a large bite out of a small slab of meat, and tore at the flesh. Snakeskin chewed for what seemed like a generation before finally swallowing. "Bit chewy, but I've bin eatin' it my 'ole entire life and I'm as righ' as rain."

"Well, er-um, yeah it's no- not really-" Came Momchillo's garbled response. He almost laughed when he realized how much he sounded like Fret. But a quick glance at the slimy-furred ferret told him that laughing was the last thing he ought to do.

Rolling his eyes, the white stoat muttered something about bread in a larder and stomped off in search of it. When he was out of earshot, Fret turned to Momchillo, his face a vicious scowl.

"Are you trying to get us killed?"

"Excuse me?"

"You don't _who_ he is, _what_ he is, _why_ he's being nice- all you do know is that there are _bones_ everywhere-"

"And what was I supposed to do?" The mouse replied, trying to remain calm. Of course, frustration was beginning to nag at him. "If we hadn't gone with him we'd have gotten lost. Or met another snake and this time you'd get swallowed whole! This way we can ask for directions and maybe even get a free meal- so you're _welcome!"_

Fret, growing livid, was sorely tempted to hit him again. Unfortunately, Snakeskin chose this golden opportunity to return, two stale old loaves of barley in paw.

"Ought to be more to yer likin'." He said, passing them one each before sitting down between the pair. For a while there was no sound beyond the cracking of the flames and that of chewing. The bread was probably older than they were, yet both had not eaten in hours and the relief of finally having something in their bellies, was enough to convince them that it was safe to eat.

"So… gonna tell me yer names or do I 'ave to make 'em up for ye?"

Fret swallowed, and without waiting, answered with the first two names he could think of. "I'm Bork and he's Whimper."

Unfortunately Momchillo did the exact same thing at the exact same time. "We're Greyclaw and Sharpfur."

Snakeskin cackled wildly, clapping his paws together as he did so. "Talentlen'd lil' liars, are we? If it's so personal I won' bother askin'. But 'ere's somethin' I do wan' te know. What are two young vermin doin' in the middle of nowhere, gettin' chased aroun' by snakes?"

Now neither answered immediately, until Fret conceded... About half the truth. "We were going south, when this idiot decided that instead of crossing over a frozen lake we should go under it!"

"Because Mar- Martha Mad-Eye-" Momchillo corrected, eager to avoid the warrior mouse's name in present company, invented something that sounded somewhat vermin-ey. "Said that all we had to do was go left!"

" _Martha_." Fret spat. "Didn't think it through, did she? Especially considering I said this was a bad idea. But of course _Martha_ doesn't care-"

"Martha _does_ care! And Martha's _sorry_!" Momchillo exploded. "But Martha also wishes you'd stop whining about _everything_ -"

"Okay. So ye two are 'eaded south. Where to?"

"Redwall." Fret snarled, his anger at Momchillo clouding his judgement.

"That Cursed Abbey!?" Snakeskin gasped.

The young ferret realized his mistake too late, but Momchillo had always been the clever one and came up with a rather convincing lie on the spot.

"We're gonna raid it." The mouse said, false excitement spreading to his face. He forced his tail to wag behind him.

"Raid it?" The stoat frowned, eyeing the small rodent.

"Y-yeah." Fret agreed, trying his hardest to seem happy at the prospect. "T-tear the walls down and b-burn the tapestry! M-melt the stupid sword and b-break all their dishes an-and-" Bella and Abbot Martin would banish him for life if they could hear him now.

"Rip the habits and smash the gates and whatnot you know. Just… vermin things…"

The particular wording made Fret glare, but Momchillo silenced him with a look.

The stoat continued to frown at them, until an amused smirk began to spread across his face. "Two _undersized_ , _underfed_ , scrawny lil' pups are goin' to destroy the woodlander's pride an' joy, eh? An' live on forever in the son's of our people, eh? _Unarmed_ , _unarmoured_ an' without vil's te boot."

"It's the truth." Fret managed to squeak from around the tremendous weight squashing at his chest.

"'Ow stupid are ye!?" Snakeskin exclaimed, his voice echoing throughout the cavern. He raised his paws high into the air. "'Undreds of grown rats an' ferrets 'ave bashed their skulls against them walls. Older, bigger, tougher, stronger, smarter vermin all armed te the teeth. That Abbey's magic, I swear. Vulpuz 'imself uses it to bring souls te 'ellgates. Even if- gigan'ic if- ye take it, then the damn 'ares'll get ye. Or them badgers- ye think snakes are bad son? Badgers'll chew afore 'ey swallow! Or ye'll get 'it by lightnin'."

Momchillo blinked, this particular course of action having backfired spectacularly. "Well, we could sneak in-" He muttered softly, only to be cuffed across the ear none-too-lightly.

Fret almost laughed at that, but found his own ears were no safer. "Ow! What was that for!?"

"I'm knockin' some sense inte ye. Mark my words neither of ye are goin' anywhere near that place."

"B-bu-"

"Firs' light tomorrow I'm takin' the pair of ye back te whoever the 'ell Martha is."

"No!" Momchillo now, was desperately trying to backtrack. "We're lying! We-we're lying! Course we don't want to conquer Redwall-"

His ear was once more the victim of his own tongue.

"Don' try it! I saw yer tail rat an' I know excitement when I see it! Don' try an' fool me now. I'll take ye 'ome if it's the last thin' I do."

"But-"

"What kin' of beas' would I be if I let two infents stomp off te their deaths?"

"But we're not infants-"

"No buts!"

"But we live there!" Fret snapped. The stoat gave him a queer look but the ferret went on to explain. "He's a mouse, not a rat an-and- I was raised by m-mice- and- yeah."

"Yer from that-that place?" Asked Snakeskin, his voice barely a whisper.

Already regretting ever opening his mouth, Fret nodded.

"We are." Momchillo admitted, awkwardly shuffling away from the stoat- who proceeded to grab him by the shoulder.

"Never met a mouse before." He admitted, pulling him in uncomfortably close. "But if ye are a mouse, what are ye doin' 'ere?"

Fret, who had also been trying to back off, was similarly dragged back next to him.

"It sounds like ye've got an interestin' story te tell. An' I very much wan' te 'ear it." Squeezing them tightly against his larger form, so that any attempts at escape were doomed to fail, he proceeded in a lower tone. "But I wan' the truth too. And if ye lie well… mayhaps I'll catch a few more 'ungry snakes tonigh'".

Momchillo swallowed, and unable to fight the stoat's monstrous grip, began. "Well, it all started, I suppose at th-the winter feast. So um, there was this hare and he was juggling onions I think. O-or radishes-"

"And then he dumped soup on me." Fret finished with a growl, remembering that embarrassment. That last embarrassment, that had started this entire mess. The final nail in his coffin…

"And then Fret went off to the walls. And he-" Here Momchillo paused, waiting for the ferret to fill in the gaps.

"Fell off."

"And he fell off and-"

"And then I got dragged off by Sharpfur and Greyclaw." The ferret snapped. "Who only knew I existed because the Skipper tried to murder me."

"Why'd 'e do that?" The stoat interrupted.

"'Coz I'm vermin."

The stoat raised an eyebrow, but Fret did not give further reply.

"Anyways…" The mouse stirred the conversation as far away as possible from the apparently-touchy subject of verminhood. "Fret was missing. And his mother was ill and then his uncle went to look for him but didn't find anything. So me and the other kids decided we'd go looking for him. Instead we got kidnapped by his rescuers. A few days later and-"

"Don't forget the part where Matiya knocked my tooth loose." Fret snapped. "Or the way you all hated me-"

"How about the time you tried to stab me?" Momchillo shot back, ignoring the ferret's muttering, the mouse continued. "A few days later our kidnappers got kidnapped. Me and Fret were separated from the others and shipped up to this place along with a few other members of the Honest Bunch."

"Yer original kidnappers?"

"Yeah. I was mining sandstone all winter while Fret… he…" Come to think of it, what had he been doing? "He…"

"Served the Prince." The ferret finished hastily, his tail swishing behind him.

"There was a big feast yesterday night I think. And I escaped my cell through a hole another slave found. The-then I found Fret, we knocked out the Prince, escaped the castle, crossed the mountain, fell asleep, found the tunnels and then found the snake. You know the rest."

"An' all them ridges on yer back mouse, whip made 'em?"

Wordlessly, Momchillo nodded.

Snakeskin did not say anything for a while, but when he did, it was on a completely different subject, as if he hadn't even heard a word they'd said.

"Ye must be tired." The stoat summarized, releasing them and rising to his feet. "Ye'll find this fur is quite comfurtable, bit itchy but I daresay ye've 'ad worse beds."

"Haven't had a bed since we left Redwall." Momchillo said quietly, his eyes far away and gazing into distant memories somehow made evident by the fire.

"I can make ye a few cloaks too if ye like." He added, flourishing his own. "Keeps the col' out rather well. Got too many of these 'ere pelts anyways. As for yer journey…" He paused. "We'll talk in the mornin'." And on that note, he left, leaving both by the cackling flames.

The fire was dwindling by the time Fret slunk off to sleep in a corner- as far from the mouse as possible. Curling up into as tight a ball as possible, exhaustion soon claimed his form.

Momchillo was not as lucky, and although his eyelids threatened to collapse at any moment, some inexplicable force was keeping them from doing so.

The mouse had gone through the majority of his life without much thought. Yet now he was staring at scenes long past. Stranger still, he was thinking about Fret. Perhaps it was just because he was the only one left of his abbey friends, or because he had very nearly died earlier that day. Whatever the reason, Fret was now all he could think about.

Before they had been separated, Matiya had been trying to convince them of the ferret's… innocence? The squirrel had been convinced of… _something_ … to the point that, twice, he'd delayed their escape for the ferret's sake. Yet he could not begin to comprehend what he'd been getting at.

That Fret had fallen off the walls instead of running off?

Well alright, but how the ferret had ended up with the Honest Bunch wasn't exactly important. It was what he'd done with them that mattered. He'd saved Hawthorn from the big rat once. That much was undeniable… yet only a short while later he'd picked up a knife, intent on using it… to cut the rope perhaps? The Honest Bunch hadn't seemed particularly impressed by the stunt, and knowing first-paw how valueless slaves were, that didn't seem to make much sense if Fret had tried to murder them. However, if the ferret had been intent on releasing them it would explain their relative coldness towards him. It also explained why Matiya had vouched so hard for the ferret. And it also meant that the sole reason they hadn't gotten back yet, was because he hadn't trusted Fret.

He had next to no proof of this beyond mere theorising, but it explained away a large portion of the ferret's behaviour. Of course, that did not mean much either.

The simplest solution would be to ask him, but for the life of him, Momchillo could not do so. He would be met, no doubt, with hostility, and if he pressed too hard for answers, the ferret would cry. And then _he'd_ be in the wrong.

The mouse sorely regretted not asking Deathglare, or Sick-Eyes and the weasels. He also regretted that Matiya could not have made himself clearer, instead of spouting garbled garbage.

Watching the ferret toss and turn and mumble in his sleep the mouse felt a stirring akin to guilt begin to bubble in the pit of his stomach.

 _"I'm a pragmatist." He'd meant to say. But Fret hadn't let him finish._

 _"You're a bully!" The ferret had snapped._

And if all his theorising were true… then indeed he was.

Sleep came uneasily to the mouse, but eventually it did come. And when it did it came dreamless and calm. Almost peaceful.


	44. A Lesson In History

**A/N: Abrahem,**

 **Hmm Sharpfur and Fret had a pretty interesting dynamic earlier on. Mostly because Sharpfur read him like a book. Although I can say that he won't be meeting anyone anytime soon XD**

 **If you type up Redwall Map in google you'll find that the Lands of Ice and Snow (here the Frozen North/ Northlands despite the fact that there is another Northlands) is really, really farm from Redwall.**

 **Oh, um, yeah... never really got to posting any videos... If you ever do start writing something I'll probably be obliged to give it a read. I have a rather large pile of things I need to read...**

 **Not... exactly. I'm half Swiss half Bosnian, currently live in Serbia but I used to live in London so I know the 'english slang'. And stoats, weasels, shrews eccetera are more European than American (although I wouldn't really know, but I'm pretty sure...) the map of Redwall also looks like the British Isles and Highlanders are kind of like a parody of Scottish folk.**

 **Accents are always fun. Kind of wanted to give something unique to Snakeskin beyond typical vermin drawl. Funnily enough I only know about dirks because of an item in League of Legends called Serrated Dirk. I honestly thought it was just a fancy word for knife XD**

 **An audio-book version of Black and White. That would be really fun, but at the same time kind of hard to do I think. But I like the idea too.**

 **Actually I'm a fan of all types of fantasy, it's just Redwall is more low-level than say, Narnia or Greek Mythology. But I haven't seen the movie lol.**

 **Yeah, they are triplets. Your assumption is correct. (I like the idea that not even their parents could tell them apart so names just became redundant.**

 **Hmmm, I'll think about it. But not sure if they'll get any real combat.**

 **Lord Demon, Cameo, no cameo? Mention or pumpkin story? Do you still want me to use him or nah?**

 _The wall of ice was cold and cruel, and refused to budge in the slightest. Aside from pathetic shaking Fret could not move either. And even if he could there was nowhere left to run. The snake was edging closer now, with deliberate slowness, as if underlining the hopelessness of his situation. Momchillo had abandoned him. If not for his present predicament Fret would have been cursing a storm. The mouse! The dumb mouse who's fault it was that he was being faced, not with tauntable Bork, but with an unkillable monster._

 _Where was Clogg now? Or Constance? Or even his Nuncle… the same Nuncle he'd condemned to a watery grave._

 _"It's not funny!" He wanted to snap, but his muzzle was sealed in a perpetual whimper. It wasn't funny! It was just another stupid joke. Surely Grollo was under the snakeskin, with Matiya balanced overhead. It wouldn't have been the first stupid joke the trio had pulled on him. Once Momchillo had lead him up to the attic, only for Matiya to jump out- covered head to tail to toe in flour. Fret had almost fallen out a window in fright, but the two had laughed all the same. The only bright side was that Matiya had been forced to wash before supper. Another time Momchillo had insisted that there was treasure underneath the abbey pond, Matiya had gone wild with excitement and had dragged both him and Grollo for a 'quick swim' that lasted most of the afternoon. The ferret had stunk so hard at supper that he'd been dragged off for a bath- not that that had helped much._

 _Why was it he always stunk? An odour all described as foul, but he knew not the identity of, had clung to him since infancy. He'd had more baths than the rest of the abbey youth put together, not that that had ever helped. In fact he was almost certain he'd come out stinking worse._

 _Constance had of course, never complained. Connington too, although he had always made a point to cover his nose in some 'discreet' way. It had gotten better over time, to the point where he was no longer dumped directly into boiling water every morning. Or perhaps they abbeybeasts had gotten used to it. Or given up on him… at the very least Connington had stopped covering his nose…_

 _Perhaps children were immune to foul smells, but the rest of his generation had never really brought it up… not until he was older anyways. Then there had been no mercy, to the point that the pretty vole and her mole friend remained forever nameless, too high and mighty were they for the stinking fiend. The mean runt of their class._

 _He did not know how to explain his infatuation with the white-furred vole. It certainly wasn't love. It certainly wasn't just because she was pretty. After all, Fret and pretty things were not made for one another. No, he'd never cared about her dumb mole companion with her frustrating accent and she was arguably just as pretty._

 _But he remembered vividly that he'd stared at her for perhaps unhealthy amounts of time. He had never told Constance. He had never told Connington. Bella however, knew, and had always sternly reminded him that staring was rude. Grollo had called it love, and had always encouraged him to 'talk to her'. Thankfully the hedgehog had never done it within earshot of Matiya and Momchillo, but it had still irked the young ferret._

 _"I don't even know her name stupid!" Fret had snapped. And it wasn't love! Love was silly. Anyhow only Constance could love him._

 _It was longing. A longing to be accepted. To not be seen as the dirt on the back of one's sandal- something to be gotten rid of as soon as possible. By somebeast that was not Constance anyways. And where better to start than with a classmate he didn't even know the name of?_

 _Once, when he'd been much more naive and considerably shorter, Abbot Martin had set them to picking flowers. Fret had picked up the largest dandelion his paws could find, intent on delivering it to the pretty vole, perhaps with a 'what's your name'. Of course, that had failed magnificently. The pollen had gotten into his nose, and he'd sneezed on her. Then Matiya and Momchillo had come crashing into him. From that moment onwards he'd kept his distance._

 _His life was full of such moments. Bitter disappointment and unfairness had gone paw in paw to make him miserable._

 _Once he had tried to make a cake for Constance. Matiya, Grollo and Momchillo had offered to help, but several disagreements later he'd been left on his own. Not that he had minded. Making a cake was easy. Mix flour, water and every sweet thing he could get his paws on in a bowl and bake it in an oven. Of course he'd fallen asleep while cooking and the result was a cake blacker than his fur. He'd wanted to throw it away, but the stupid Friar had refused to let him do so. Instead the fat hedgehog had peeled off the vast majority of Fret's doing and decorated the meager portion left with enough sweetened meadowcream and candied chestnuts to undo his mistake. Of course he'd also undid most of the ferret's cake. Sure it had looked better than anything he was capable of making, but that did not change the fact that it was no longer his doing._

 _Constance had loved it all the same, and even though he was sure that she knew that he hadn't done it, she'd still praised him for it. Unfortunately she'd also hugged him and he hated hugs…_

A loud chuckle from somewhere nearby brought the ferret back to his senses, and no sooner had his eyes snapped open than the dreams had begun to fade away into the pit of memory from whence they had come.

Snakeskin was the source of the offending noise, at present flicking through a familiar-looking tome. If Fret had not just woken up he'd have recognised it as Clogg's. But as it was, with sleep needing to be rubbed thoroughly from his eyes, he only saw what could have been any other book.

"Mornin'." The stoat greeted, not lifting his eyes from the pages.

Fret stiffled a yawn but made no reply.

"This is an interestin' book." The stoat said, waving it for the ferret to see.

That was when Fret recognised it. His heart beat shot up faster than a thunderbolt and his mouth was open. But all that came out was a series of increasingly desperate 'er's and 'um's.

Snakeskin raised an eyebrow, a smirk traveling across his white-furred face. "I'm assumin' it's yers?"

"I- well- er, i-in a- y-n-no. N-never seen that b-before."

"That explains yer reaction." The stoat was now more interested than ever. "Where'd ye get it?"

"I-I stole it." This was only half a lie. Clogg hadn't exactly given it to him to keep, nor had the rat expected him to run away.

"Why?"

"I-er, i-it looked pretty." The ferret's eyes darted to where Momchillo lay snoozing blissfully.

"I don' think yer bein' 'onsest." Snakeskin sung, his grin wider than ever. "Go on ferret. What's this book to ye?"

"N-nothing! Absolutely nothing." Fret was sure he was being convincing. "I-I thought we could trade it for food. I-if we g-got hungry."

"Nothin', eh?"

Fret nodded.

The stoat closed it and hung the book perilously close to the fire. "So ye don' min' if I just dump this 'ere?"

"O-of course I d-don't."

Snakeskin feinted and Fret flinched.

"Yer lyin'." The stoat decided, lifting the tome safely away from the flames. "Now. I'm tryin' te be nice te my guests. But I don' like liars. Ye tell me the truth now or I fin' a snake ter feed ye to."

Fret swallowed. How had the stoat even gotten his paws over that book? It had never left his side… "I-I-"

"I'm sure somebeas'll fin' ye scrumptious."

Now the ferret whimpered, unable to tell whether or not the stoat's threat was to be taken lightly or not. Deciding that this was not something he ought to risk his life for, Fret relented. "It was a gift."

"From 'o? Don' forget the de'ails."

"Details." He swallowed again.

"The mouse doesn't know, does 'e?" The firelight cast strange shadows over Snakeskin, making him seem almost demonic.

"You won't tell Momchillo?"

"On my 'onour as an 'unter."

"Well, er- it's- a long story."

"Son, I don' got anythin' better te do. Now start talkin', I ain't as patien' as I used te be."

"Okay. Well. You know how me and Momchillo escaped slavery?"

"Mhmmm."

"I- I wasn't exactly a slave." A quick glance at Momchillo confirmed that the mouse was still asleep. Fret dared not think what might happen if he learned the truth. Luckily he did not have to worry about that... Yet anyways. "I was their… guest."

"Why?"

"B-b-because I-I- Because they thought I was somebeast important."

"And 'o did they think ye were?"

"I-I-I-"

"That's a pretty silly name."

"Some warlord's son."

"Which one?"

"I-I- don't know the name. I forgot."

"Mayhaps this'll jog yer memory." Snakeskin flicked through the book till he came upon the page with Fret's supposed parents.

"Mad-Eye _Martha_ , eh?" A claw was jabbed at Marik's face.

"Momchillo doesn't know about this." Fret pointed out. "He was just making stuff up."

"So… are ye his son?"

"I-I- don't know. The only parent I remember is C-constance." He swallowed. There was a cold glint in Snakeskin's eyes now. A kind of hatred that made Fret shiver.

"Hmm… I knew Marik. Was 'is mate."

"Okay." The ferret rubbed at his chest and provided a nervous chuckle and changed the subject. "So- you're not going to say anything t-to-"

"Momchillo? Nah. I'll just ask 'im 'o gave 'im such a dumb name. An', son of Marik. What's yer name?"

"F-fret."

"Fufret? Who gave ye that name? Is it _even_ a name?"

"It is." Fret snapped indigantly. "And it's Fret. Just Fret."

"Still a stupid name."

"Better than Snakeskin." The ferret muttered.

"An' 'oo exactly gave ye this book?"

"Clogg." Fret replied. Despite his initial discomfort, he found that talking about it all wasn't so bad.

"'Oo?"

"Trammun Clogg."

"Never 'eard of 'im." The stoat declared.

"There's a picture of him." He pointed at the book, which Snakeskin handed to him. A short amount of flicking lead to Clogg. He had not spent much time staring at the rat's picture, after all, he'd had the real thing for most of his time in the Northlands. But, just like all the others, it was incredibly realistic and resembled every inch of the rat from the tip of his tail to the edge of his whiskers.

He handed the tome of portraits back to Snakeskin with a nervous glance in Momchillo's direction. The mouse could awaken at any moment. There was also the possibility that the rodent was faking sleep. Fret broke into a sweat, and his fears of the mouse returning to consciousness were increased a hundredfold when laughter exploded from the stoat's chest.

"Clogg? Is that what 'e's callin' 'imself? Hahahahahahahahaha! What a- what a plonker! Hahahaha! This is too good! Too good!"

"Er- what is?"

"I knew this 'ere rat as Whimper. He was a runt see, family kicked 'im out after 'e murdered 'is brother. Min' ye, that arse deserved it. Anywho, 'e was freezin' te death one day when Marik an' 'is girl decided ter pity 'im. Next thin' ye know 'e was followin' them everywhere. Me, Marik, Slit an' Whimper. So 'ow is Marik these days? Did 'Cloggy' mention it?"

"Oh, er, y-yeah M-Marik's dead." Fret scratched awkwardly at his neck, unsure how Snakeskin would react to this turn of events.

The stoat seemed delighted by this news, and with another hearty laugh, slapped his knee. "Guess I outlived the big bully! What about Slit? Whimpy's obviously still kickin' bu-"

"She's dead too." Fret tried to word it as best he could, but there was no way to say those words without being blunt.

"Shame." Snakeskin shook his head, his grin clashing viciously with his words. " Liked 'er a lot I did. Course she 'ad it comin'."

For the first time in a very long time, Fret was overwhelmed with curiosity. This was not Whimper's constant questioning, which had only been the result of utter confusion. This was a thirst for knowledge he'd never quite felt before. He had often asked how Constance had found him, why she's taken him in- but the mouse was cunning and had given him vague answer after vague answer. Of course that had only made him ask more. But she was cleverer and eventually had always answered with 'because I love you'. The soppiness of the words- irrespective of how heartwarming they had been at times- had put an end to such questioning.

But sitting before him was a well of information. If he could just tap into Snakeskin's mind a little bit he would know more about Marik and Slit-throat and a side to Clogg he had never considered before. Whimper, but wasn't _he_ Whimper?

"So... am I their son?" Of course this was the first question. It was the one he wanted to know most of all. In his mind it was inextricably anbd inexplicably linked to where he belonged.

"Yer not mine, that's fer certain." The stoat chuckled but noted the desperate longing in the ferret's eyes and handed Fret the book. "I'm afraid I can' answer that. We 'ad a fallin' out of sorts. Didn' know they 'ad any sons. Well Marik 'ad one or two, but they'd be older. Anyhow ye don' look a thin' like 'im. There's a bit of Slit in ye but..." He shook his head and shrugged. "She never stammered. If I 'ad te tell ye 'o yer parent's were I'd name the mouse what raised ye. Blood ain't nowhere near as thick as walls."

Fret's face fell. Apparently he would not be receiving answers anytime soon. Perhaps the next time he saw Constance she would tell him. If he ever did get to see her again... anyhow she probably wouldn't want to see him...

At that moment Momchillo yawned to life and sitting up groggily, blinked existence back into his eyes. "Morning."

"Pshaw! Late afternoon more like! Get up mouse! There's a thousan' leagues from 'ere te Redwall. An' ye ain't gonna get there sittin' on yer arse. 'Urry up we 'aven't got all day!"

Snakeskin's words brought Momchillo swiftly to his feet. The mouse's face was bright with excitement and for the first time in a long time he looked as young as he was. "You're taking us South?"

"As far south as I know lad. Ye'll still 'ave a lon' journey a'ead of ye, but at leas' ye won' be dead on my doorstep."

* * *

 _Footnote: A short-ish chapter but I've written shorter. Yet somehow this one was such a pain to write. The dream sequences I did in about an hour since Fret's life in Redwall is just easy.  
_

 _The other half I didn't know what to do with. I needed the chapter to end with Snakeskin announcing them going South (so that I, in turn, could go back South) but getting there was complicated. At first I had multiple renditions of 'Fret and Momchillo argue' but we've had about four chapters dedicated to how and why they don't like each other (plus it would really mess up Momchillo's arc up till now). Then I decided 'Fret got swallowed whole, let's make him loose his fur for comedic purposes', then that turned into a heated argument. Then it turned into a really long conversation that rushed through their entire conflict and was kind of heartwarming but ultimately detrimental to mine plans (muahahahaha) so I had to cut it (but I have it saved if I need to use it later on). So, what the heck, I decided to go for snippets of Snakeskin's backstory plus a bit more on Clogg and Marik and Slit-throat._

 _Ironically it means that Momchillo has slept through two important conversations at this point. Going to have to turn that into a running gag XD_


	45. Near The Abbey Walls

**A/N: *Sigh* yeah, this was a bit late, but I'm alive. No need to worry. Valentine's Day was nice. Now my excuse list is as follows: Was working/still working on a Valentine's Day special, got stuck, wrestled with it for a while, decided I could save it for later and theeeeen started working on this. Re-wrote most of the chapter into it's current format and yeah. This chapter and the next two should be quite... Entertaining to say the least. It should be obvious why when you're done.**

 **Now review responses... Don't think I've ever gotten that many reviews for a single chapter (I mean half of them are from Abrahem- but STILL!) I'm also at 7.5K views (and that's also probably mostly Abrahem, but considering that my second most viewed fic is at 2.3K I'd say it's still a milestone)! Okay, that's my self-back-patting sorted.**

 **AlexFalTon (I know more Alex's on FFN then in real life...) Yeah, names aren't really my strong suite (really should have called Snakeskin Snake-eyes and made him a gambler but there are too many eyes running around already!) Still, glad you found it neat.**

 **Berserker88 Hard to believe something good is happening to them, eh? Says a lot about how much misery I put my characters through XD**

 **Sebias of Redwall Honestly not a bad idea, but I think since 'clarity' is more important than 'mystery' at this point (some of you have already guessed the way this ends 0.0) I might as well put it here that Marik's potential offspring are, Fret, the replacement Whimper and Thornflame.**

 **Abrahem (and One-eye) I don't know, I don't see them ever being lovey dovey, and seeing how I didn't take it beyond the first chapter it could have just been early instalment oditties but it seemed fitting to delve into Fret's character. Also the jab about molespeech is mostly me voicing my frustration at figuring out how to write it (coz goddammit that is the hardest part!) Yeah, Fret is Fret and Fret will do the Fret and embarrass himself.**

 **To be honest I'd love to do an audio book. I figured it wouldn't be so hard if we did it chapter by chapter and put it on YouTube. I think I could do a decent Sharpfur and Greyclaw. If anyone else is interested you may take part (since there are a lot of characters). Though at the same time it's not exactly a priority and I don't want to force people into labour.**

 **Typical Fret amiright? Funnily enough I think their smell is why ferret's are vermin (and the masks). Though I wanted to highlight that the main issue with raising Fret is that basically noone knew how to do it (noone knew how to bathe him, and in their attempts to curb his stink (verminness) they only made it worse (Fret the snappy is a direct result of the rest of the abbey being subconsciously speciest).**

 **Stammered means stammered. Snakeskin was mostly just highlighting the differences between Feet and his supposed mother (I suppose I could make this clearer?)**

 **Threeclaw and Snakeskin... Needless to say I expected this to happen...**

 **Yeah, I still have the documents, so most likely I'll recycle things later in the story.**

 **I don't really understand the question, but, as for why Fret wasn't tied up, I just think Thornflame didn't see any reason to. Fret wasn't taking his peers anywhere and if he tried she probably would have punished him more severely. I think she was mainly drawn to Fret (and why the Honest Bunch found him so interesting) was because, although very much vermin, he behaved nothing like a vermin.**

 **Not a bad idea I suppose, might use that (although I had different ideas for Sharpfur getting a dirk back, since you seem so keen on him having one)**

 **Well... That's it for now. Enjoy the chapter!**

"With all due respect." Friar Gord said, sounding… not particularly respectful. "My family have been in charge of these here kitchens for dozens of seasons, more than anybeast can even remember! Y-you can't just 'relieve' me."

Abbot Martin had expected opposition, and he was ready for it. Frowning severely and mustering all the strength a small, old, partially-blind mouse could muster, the abbot steeled himself. "Oh I think I can. I'm sorry Gord, I truly am. But I feel like your duties to the abbey are not so important at the moment."

"If this is about the porridge than I'm sorry." The hedgehog rubbed at a wrist. "It's just I always used to cook with Grollo and well…and this missus hasn't… well…"

"And that is exactly why it is simply inconsiderate of me to let you remain here." The abbot cleared his throat. "I do not know any more of Grollo's situation than you do. But I do know that your wife misses him- as no doubt, do you. I insist that you take some time off for your own sakes. What good is a miserable father to a lost son?"

Hanging his head in shame, the former friar removed his apron and waddled away. Half-heartedly, he forced himself to ask. "And who's going to make breakfast then?"

"Don't worry about breakfast." Was the Abbot's vague reply. As soon as the cook's footsteps faded away, Constance, Bella, the Recorder, the Foremole and Roseheart came bustling in from another door, equipped with aprons and every manner of cooking utensils, right down to the chef hat far too small for a badger that decorated Bella's head.

"Alright then." Abbot Martin wiped at his spectacles. "We have got a lot of work to do. Pick any recipe you like and as many as you can make before this afternoon. Start with anything that needs to cool and cram the warm foods into the last hour. I'll handle breakfast- simple porridge- no onions- as for lunch… I suppose a simple salad would do. Nobeast eats that much anyways." Donning the Friar's abandoned apron, the abbot adjusted his spectacles one final time. "I suppose we had better get started."

"Ee be s'posin' gurt Abbot zurr. But moibe 'ee should've foired oop the ole Friar when 'ee was done with 'em dishes?"

"And where was this logic before-paw?" Martin sighed and turned. He was faced with a truly massive pile- or rather tower- of filthy dishes of every shape and form that threw his comparatively tiny form into a shadow. The old mouse nearly gave up then and there. It would be so much easier to call the Friar back… But life had to go on. "Don't worry, I'll handle the dishes." Rolling up his sleeves, the abbot got to work. Like all things in life, it was easier said than done.

* * *

The Log-a-log was in a foul mood. Honestly it looked rather like he'd chosen to wear a thunderstorm over his head. He stomped into the Great Hall at breakfast time, followed at a distance by the rest of the weary 'rescue party'. A few cast hopeful glances in their direction- perhaps by some miracle some news of the children would come- but the shrew's foul mood turned all away.

Despite being a shrew, the smallest of all woodlander and vermin species in Mossflower, the Log-a-log was a fearsome sight. Half-an-inch taller than the rest of his kind and with a belly that, in it's prime, could crush a lesser beast (for it was much smaller nowadays when nourishment was not to be found), the shrew did not need scars to convey the message that he had fought in a dozen battles and won them all.

Now he seemed to be looking for another battle, anything he could tear to pieces… if only he could find some no-good rat to vent on.

A few spaces down Mormont giggled. He could not help it. A young, fit mouse of the abbey, and soon a father to a litter of no less than six little mouselings. Despite the doom and gloom he could not help but be cheerful. Especially not when discussing the names of their babies.

"Not Mortimer, please. My great uncle would never let the poor boy go."

"But what if he has that nose!"

"What nose?"

"Your family's nose! The one your cousin has! You know, all square-like."

Now he snorted with laughter and banged a paw on the table. "I'd much rather name him after my cousin, thanks."

"What kind of a name is Tumbledee?"

Both chortled merrily- until the Log-a-log snapped in their direction.

"Very funny isn't it? That your kids'll be the only one in this here abbey this spring, isn't it? It's very funny that the giggling dibbuns are going to be the only parents left inside these dumb great walls."

Mormont murmured an apology, but none heard it over the shrew, who now spoke loud enough to be heard all through Mossflower.

"Oh don't be sorry mouse! You've got no reason to be! Smile, go on! Smile and laugh and giggle and chortle while I go mad!"

Nobeast dared look at the Log-a-log, but he went on, talking more to himself than anybeast present. "I mean, we've all got plenty of reasons to be happy, don't we? Don't we!? It's not like our kids are missing! It's not like we don't know if they're dead or alive! Oh no! They're just getting tucked into bed by some nice old badger! Hedgehogs are making them tea and stoats are giving them dance lessons aren't they? It's the only explanation! No tracks, no scent, not even a piece of their skeletons! All bleeding winter!"

He rose, and everybeast cleared a wide path for him to stomp through. The shrew came to a halt at the foot of the great tapestry of Martin the Warrior.

"All I ask, is for a sign. If they're dead, tell me and let me have peace! If they're alive, tell me, so that I know I'm not just wasting my time!" He waited patiently for the whole of five minutes, the hall so silent a pin would have echoed like a bell, until finally he exploded.

"TEEEELL ME!" Frantic paws tugged shamelessly at the foot of the tapestry, and threatened to rip the thread apart.

"What on earth is going on?" Came Abbot Martin's voice.

The Log-a-log shot towards him, and before the old mouse could blink he was nose-to-nose with the chief shrew, a mad gleam evident in the creature's eye as the warrior's much stronger paws clung tightly to the abbot's front. "Haven't you noticed!? My son is gone. Whoosh! Vanished! Maybe he's dead, maybe he's on an island thousands of leagues away! Perhaps a bird swooped down and swallowed him whole! You have no idea, how much this hu-u-u-urts!" And then the shrew released a deluge of tears and buried his face into the abbot's front.

This was no laughing matter as, although shorter, the Log-a-log weighed at least twice as much as the old mouse, who very nearly fell over. Friar Gord came to the abbot's rescue, and being a rather bulky beast himself, had no trouble helping the shrew sob away the pain- even if the hedgehog wished he still had an apron on.

This was the final reminder the old abbot needed, to realise just how important this feast was for the sake of the abbey at large.

* * *

It had begun to snow over Mossflower and the lush green of the world, accentuated here and there by flowers of every shape and colour, clashed viciously with the white, now trying once more to carpet it all one final time.

Matiya was grateful for the snow. The arrival of Lily Prickla, as the old hedgehog was called, had reminded him that he looked like something a wildcat might cough up, and the cool, melting snows helped scrub off the dirt behind his ears. If he was going to be back at the abbey by nightfall, as the old hedgehog predicted, he did not want to look like he'd spent the past few weeks in a mudbath. The good old, bright red gleam of his fur however, only served to highlight the dark bruises that covered him like patches of fur, which would no doubt lead to some awkward questions.

There would be a lot of awkward questions of course, and Threeclaw was uncomfortably talkative all of a sudden. Yet despite all misgivings, he was excited by the prospect of finally being back with Momchillo and Roseheart and Grollo and Hawthorn (who had no doubt reached Redwall by now). Perhaps he and Sharpfur could have a rematch… he could show the weasel a thing or two Threeclaw had taught him. Maybe even give a bruise or two…

Funnily enough Fret was probably the first beast he'd encounter. That promised to be awkward, but Matiya was looking forwards to it. What better way to cement the lack of hatred than to land a surprise 'good to see you'. That was if the ferret was in the gatehouse anyways, he was probably in class… or dish duty.

"So what exactly happens when we are dedans the abbey?" Threeclaw asked, as if only slightly curious, but Matiya thought there was a hint of nervousness there.

"Dud- on?" Asked the old hedgepig hobbling between them. Being a fanatic of grammar (much to Threeclaw's chagrin) she was simply fascinated by the stoat's knowledge of 'foreign tongues'. The fact that he had no idea how to write any of the words he said, proved more than anything, that Matiya had been right and 'French' was made up.

"It means inside en Francais. So when we are being inside the rouge-"

"That's red isn't it!" Lily exclaimed, rather like a dibbun in school.

"Oui." The stoat said through gritted teeth. Matiya had to stop himself from laughing.

"And that's yes?" For an old beast she was wide-eyed with wonder.

"Yes." There was so much exhaustion and annoyance in that one syllable, that Matiya felt compelled to rescue Threeclaw.

"Well, knowing our history as well as I do, they'll probably throw a feast." This too, was another cause if excitement. And even if they didn't pull out all the stops, any meal from Redwall would be a welcome relief from the diet of nature. Not that berries were bad, but nuts were better and Matiya could not remember the last nut he'd had. As a squirrel he was practically obligated to eat at least five a day!

"And?" The stoat persisted, apparently determined to know more- and speak in as few words as possible.

"Well they're all going to be happy to see us aren't they?" It was only after he said those words that Matiya realized the true meaning behind the question. And by then, Threeclaw had spelled it out even more clearly.

"I meant what's going to happen to me! Or are you forgetting that I'm the one that kidnapped you?" The accent was lighter now- as if it had come as an afterthought.

"Oh." The squirrel rubbed at his chest, avoiding eye contact. "Well…"

"Well?" The stoat asked, a strange mix of fear, desperation, his usual cockiness and an underlying tone of a threat, all painted into the twitches of his face.

"I don't know." Matiya said flatly. Threeclaw recoiled, as if struck. "But!" He said loudly, as if to override parts of the stoat's brain. "But we are peaceful creatures. And Abbot Martin'll listen. Y-you may have kidnapped us but you're not a bad creature. I mean, if you were I probably wouldn't be alive."

"I'm such a sweet little flower, aren't I?" The stoat spat. "The one that doesn't murder babies. I've poked eyes out of hares, I poked a hole in the shrew's shoulder. You think the abbeybeasts will forget that?"

"They won't." Matiya swallowed, now backing away from the stoat. "I haven't. B-but I also remember you teaching me to swordfight, and cutting down the berries I couldn't reach so I could catch them."

Threeclaw grabbed him by the front, and for the first time in a long time, Matiya was scared. As was Lily, who was now curled up behind the pair.

"Supposing they try and prick my shoulder, and I prick them back-"

"You w-won't have to prick anybeast. Look. I don't care what you did to anybeast else. If it weren't for you I probably wouldn't have survived a whole winter out here. And what do you think m-matters more. Saving a life or t-taking an eye?"

"Are you scared of me?" Threeclaw asked, letting go of the squirrel's chest and using the same paw to ruffle the fur between his ears. "Well you do not have to be. Parce que c'etait une blague. I was _joking_."

Matiya did not reply. He doubted the stoat had really been joking, but like everything to do with Threeclaw, that too was an enigma.

"I suppose the abbeybeasts will ask a few questions." Said the stoat with a nonchalant shrug. "Mi pienso que you should hold the rapier." The blade landed squarely between Matiya's feetpaws.

"A-alright."

The old hedgehog was beginning to uncurl now. Evidently the danger had passed. The young squirrel breathed a tiny sigh of relief.

Shaking his head, Threeclaw marched forwards. "I am walking into the heart of all woodlanders, unarmed and hordeless." He laughed loudly, but Matiya was pretty sure it was forced. Sheathing the rapier, the squirrel swiftly caught up to him.

"Don't worry. I'll vouch for you. And this time next season…" Matiya trailed off. Threeclaw was ignoring him and quite frankly he had no idea what would go down later that day- let alone next season!


	46. In Preparation For Celebration

**A/N: AlexFalTon, I suppose you are right about him being the mystery vermin. He was the wild card of the Honest Bunch to begin with and there is much about him not yet revealed.**

 **Abrahem, Yeah, the link to Grollo was really what I was looking for- might still use Guillame though... Glad you like Lily Prickla (the frog irony link just felt fitting). As for Fret and Hawthorn, his attraction isn't necessarily 'romantic' in so much as he probably doesn't understand what 'romance' and 'love' are. He thinks she's pretty, and the fact that he doesn't know her name just adds an infuriating level of mystery to it- I mean these guys were raised together (or at least, in close proximity and have the same friend group) and have almost no interactions.**

 **Yes, I like that. It's more fitting for Sickletail to get it back (as yes, she is the warrior of the family) We shall see but a Dirk shall come into play sooner rather than later...**

 **Most likely a typo (I've cut downdon them overothe years but they still haunt me) or autocorrect. Not sure what sentence that's in but I think it's a mix of Silvertongue and Thornflame- so I was talking about one of them methinks.**

 **Regarding the audiobook, eh I guess I could do it. Maybe in a while. Though considering voices aren't often touched upon... What we think the characters sound like could be vastly different...**

 **Mormont wasn't introduced before-paw and doesn't play much of a role. Mortimer is his great uncle (who we most likely shall never see). I feel it's lines like this that introduce all sorts of potential outcomes is the reason this story is so loooooong...**

 **(Strangely wanting to make Snakeskin give his guests dance lessons now... Though I feel like that's a bit out of place XD And once more Threeclaw and he have been linked... Indirectly of course but... There are no accidents...)**

 **Berserker88 and One-eye, Not to dispell suspense or anything but, wouldn't it be a step backwards if I a) randomly killed off Threeclaw while his whole character is still a mystery and b) repeatedly have the vermin make everything worse for them through the power of miscommunication? Not saying that's not gonna happen but I feel like I've over-used that trope a bit too much this story... Just a bit...**

The cooking was going well, or at least Abbot Martin thought it was. The logistics of six beasts making an entire feast from scratch- in merely a few hours no less- had seemed daunting at first- yet progress was evident in the impressive pile of steaming dishes already laid on trays.

Constance was working furiously on no less than six preparations simultaneously. He had never seen her in battle, but there was something in the fury she used to chop up the vegetables, and the decisiveness of her stirring and the ruthlessness of her pot-pushing that brought the warrior out of her. Her parents had been right to name her after a badger after all…

The Foremole worked at a much slower pace. Being an inexperienced cook, and illiterate, he took his time listening to the instructions Roseheart read to him from behind a humongous recipe book half her height. He would then tweak his nose and follow said instructions… very… very… slowly… Nevertheless, progress was progress and the Foremole's two dishes were painstakingly crafted with love and adoration.

The same could not be said of Montague, who cranked up his cooking speeds in an attempt to remain ahead of Constance. He was a champion wordsmith and Abbot Martin knew that he could spend hundreds of hours mulling over a single phrase or line. He was a different kind of mouse in the kitchens, and had an impressive collection of partially-burned pastries, soups that smelled burnt and ingredients so black there was no telling what was what.

Bella, like the Foremole, was using a cookbook. And like Constance, was impressively multi-tasking. A pair of puddings were laid to cool as the badger stacked flower petal after flower petal onto a cake that put the once formidable dirty dish tower to shame.

Abbot Martin had, aside from breakfast, spent most of his morning at the pile. A part of him was bemused, he hadn't been on dish-duty since he was a dibbun. Another part of him was now all too aware why this was Bella's favoured form of punishment.

It did not help that his assistants (and especially Montague) kept adding to the pile. He was almost tempted to find somebeast else to do it, when the Foremole gave him the perfect excuse to leave.

"B'aint it zoon goner be time fur voittles?"

"I'm busy!" Snapped the Recorder, having neither heard nor understood what the mole had said.

"Ah yes." He wiped at his brow, for the kitchens were a sweltering jungle in all but name. "Y-yes. Did anyone prepare a salad or anything?"

"Um…" Went Constance, temporarily lifting her eyes.

"Burr aye, 'fraid not zurr."

"No matter… no matter. This should do." He then began piling fresh lettuce onto a platter. "Something light. And fresh. And- and-" Abbot Martin sighed. He was getting far too old for all of this…

Those that attended lunch that day were a mix of shocked and traumatized by the fare. Never, in all of it's history, had fresh, whole lettuce been served at the abbey. But there was a first for anything and noone dared complain to the Abbot's face (though many did behind his back).

The old mouse was fuming by the time he got back to the kitchens. The steam billowing from his ears made him greatly resemble one of Constance's steaming sauces.

"You should have seen Friar Gord's face just now! Half the abbey is convinced I can't cook to save my life and the other half thinks I've gone mad. AND I AM MOST CERTAINLY NOT MAD!"

"Iffen 'ee spoiken zo zurr." The Foremole replied, staring intently at the little bubbles forming in the water.

"Yes. You are just as sane as the rest of us!" Montague declared, slamming a completely burnt pie upon the table with strength a battering ram would envy.

The old mouse sighed and found himself temple-rubbing. Honestly his paws were practically glued to his forehead at this point. "Honestly, I'm not sure how high a praise that is."

"Oi'm poirfuctly sane!" Said the Foremole, grinning widely. A stray piece of boiling water shot out of the pot and caught him square on the nose. The 'perfectly sane' mole promptly fell backwards with a yelp and hit the floor hard.

"Oi know 'ee are papa." Said Roseheart, flicking the book until she came across a recipe of interest that justified boiling the water.

* * *

"They're starvin' us." Said Fang, glaring at the door. The old mouse had a habit of coming at roughly the same time every day- but according to her current calculations Abbot Martin, self-proclaimed Allfather of Redwall, was three hundred years late already. Vulpuz was the only reason she and her siblings were still alive. They were too young to go to Hellgates. But they couldn't do much growing, could they, if they didn't have any vittles? Which meant they were immortal. But what was the point of living forever if she couldn't eat. She was hungry for food! Not power!

"I wanna be Bow t'day!"

"Ye were Bow yesterday!"

"But ye were Fang yesterday! An' I don't wanna be Jewel!"

"Me neither! Now lemme be Bow! And t'morrow ye can be Fang!"

"Ye can't trick me! I ain't Greyclaw! I'll be Jewel f'rever if I let ye be Bow now!"

"I can be Jewel!" Declared Cheese, trying the necklace on himself and very much liking the weight around his neck. He looked like a legendary corsair now! All he needed were a set of tattoos, Sharpfur's dirk and Gulash's size. Then he'd rule the seas and skies and even Vulpuz would fear him!

"Ye can't be Jewel Cheese 'coz yer Cheese!" Both weasels snapped simultaneously. Pointing tiny half-formed claws at one another they declared in unison. " _She's_ Jewel!"

"Finally!" Exclaimed Fang as Abbot Martin came in, armed with hastily-shredded lettuce. "We were starvin' abbotmouse! Be quicker next time!"

"Abbotmouse! Abbotmouse! I'm Jewel!" Declared Cheese, pointing at his chest and the jewel that hung between his knees.

"And I wanna be Bow!" Snapped the other two, one paw still firmly clamped over each side of the accessory.

Despite the fact that he was near the point of collapse, Abbot Martin smiled, and held his paw out to the two. "Alright, you can both be Bow. As long as I can tell you apart-"

"Her nose is bigger!" Said one.

"No! Hers is look! She stretches it out!"

"I do not!"

The two devolved into more rapid bickering- the sort Abbot Martin knew to stay uninvolved with, lest they decide he was a more important problem to be solved.

"What kind of tattoos should I get?"

The old mouse put a paw to his chest- how had the little weasel gotten so close so quickly? "T-t-tattoos?"

"For when I'm a pirate! All I need is te be big an' strong an' then I'll be the greatest corsair ever!" The little weasel threw his paws into the air and Abbot Martin had to adjust his spectacles. Cheese had been the best-behaved of all the weasels, his sudden desire to be a glorified cut-throat was worrying to say the least.

"Why do you want to be a pirate?" The old mouse asked slowly, aware that this might be a touchy subject.

"Because it's fun! I can be swingin' on ropes!" Grabbing hold of the Abbot's ears he proceeded to swing on them. "An' fightin' an' plunderin'! I can have all the vittles I can eat an' even Ublaz'll be jealous." Releasing his grip on the rodent's ears the weasel scrambled onto his knees so that abbot and dibbun were nose to nose. Speaking in a deep, commanding voice Cheese stared intently into Martin's eyes, his own narrowed in concentration. "Look... Into... My eyes!"

Smiling despite himself, the abbot lifted the weasel (for the sake of his old knees who found no comfort on the ground without the weasel's added weight) and placed him next to his sisters, all of whom were now determinedly chewing lettuce.

"If you want to swing on ropes I could let you ring the abbey bells. If food is what you want you'll find that the kitchens here are nearly always full of them. Perhaps instead of fighting and plundering yourself, you could become Recorder and write of such adventures and more. It is important to dream, little Cheese, but do not tie yourself up to one. You are young and the time to dream is now. I should think you'd want to be more than just a pirate."

Cheesienibbles mulled this over as he chewed thoughtfully at the meager dinner. "Yer right abbotmouse. Bein' a pirate's borin'!" He raised both paws into the air. "I'll be a piratical recorder who rings bells all day an' is always hungry but also super-strong!"

A part of him wanted to facepalm, but the old abbot went with the other side of him and smiled fondly as he made the energetic pup sit down.

"When I was your age I wanted to be Abbey Warrior. Of course, there hadn't been any battles to fight back in my youth. But I would always read the histories." He sighed wistfully. "I dreamed that one day, perhaps, Martin the Warrior would drop a riddle my way. But alas, the day never came and I went from novice, to assistant recorder, to recorder, to abbot. But never warrior."

"Ye'd have made a great warrior." Bow sniggered.

"Aye." Agreed Fang. "Ye'd have won us the battle in seconds."

The old mouse chuckled. "Well I don't think I was ever _that_ good-"

"That's the point. One sling te the head and we'd have beat ye. Ye'd have won us the battle!"

 _So much for progress…_

"No he wouldn't! The abbotmouse'd obviously wear a helmet!"

"Would not!"

"Would too!"

"Cheese, there ain't no helmet that would've fit on them ears."

"Aye! He'd have to fold them over his eyes and would run into a tree!"

"More like a rapier!"

"Tree!"

"Rapier!"

The argument came to an end when Jewel burped, and shoved over the now-empty tray. "Doesn't matter does it? The abbotmouse'd be dead anyways. And then nobeast would bring us food."

"And then we'd live for ever!" Fang shuddered, hugging her tail for comfort.

Abbot Martin picked up the tray and rose to his feet, ready to go back to preparing the feast.

"Can ye read us a story?" Asked Cheese, just as he opened the door.

The story… he'd forgotten about that too… "Well… I suppose…" He sighed. There was no way he could fit in a story. Not when the feast was due any minute… "Another time."

The weasel failed to disguise his disappointment and the abbot felt compelled to offer an explanation.

"Today is a very important day. I- I- if I could I would of course read you a story, but with the feast so soon and-"

"Feast?" Cried Fang. "Ye never told us about no feast!"

"Will there be music an' dancin'?"

"How about some proper vittles?"

"Well… there ought to be music I suppose. But I'm not sure about dancing and such and-"

The weasels breathed a collective sigh of relief.

"Good. Dancin's so difficult!"

"Too difficult!"

"But music's good. Especially when Pa plays."

"What about vittles?"

"Well of course there will be food!" Martin failed to surpress a chuckle. "What's a feast without food?"

"Can I come?" Cheese asked at first. He tried to add a 'please' but it was drowned out under the sound of his sister's similar questions.

"Ahem, yes, well…" Now he regretted ever mentioning a feast. On the one paw it was not fair to banish anybeast when there was a feast at play, on the other it was risky to bring the weasels along. The general sentiment towards vermin in general was not exactly positive- less so now that it was clear that Fret was to blame for all the missing children. Their presence might add salt to an already open wound. Furthermore he wasn't sure whether they could be trusted with cutlery. "I- er- I-"

"We'll be good!" Fang insisted. "Ye'd think we were squirrel pups!"

"I-"

Their eyes expanded, till they seemed to absorb their whole heads.

"Please?"

"I-I shall think about it!"

And with that Abbot Martin left.

* * *

Bella was dripping in sweat. It looked like she'd taken a dip in the abbey pond with her clothes on (in other words, ridiculous) but the Badgermum had always considered appearances trivial. They were all deadbeasts in the end after all.

Despite her strong views on appearance, Bella was determined to make this the greatest cake in Redwall's history! A work of art already, she just needed a final touch to her snowflake. Gently squeezing the icing bottle in her shaking paws a miniscule amount of the frosting began to cover the cake.

"I need your help!" Abbot Martin declared loudly, entering swiftly from the door that lead to the cellars. Bella panicked and squeezed too hard and her pristine little snowflake was ruined.

It was lucky for Martin that she did not possess the bloodwrath.

"Should I or should I not," Abbot Martin began , oblivious to how narrowly he'd avoided death. "Allow the weasels to join the festivities?"

There was an awkward silence.

Constance shrugged nonchalantly. He'd been expecting her to have a stronger opinion, having raised Fret and all she was the most experienced with vermin, yet all she did was mumble something along the lines of 'you're the abbot' and turned back to her work. The old mouse did not press for answers, no matter how much he wanted them.

"Well… any other-"

"I think it's a horrible idea." Montague snapped, oblivious to the fact that the butter he was frying was almost nonexistent by now. "Letting vermin into this abbey is what started this whole mess. You won't solve it by parading around the fact that none of us have learned from our mistakes."

"Insensitive as usual." Bella chided. "You always were a blunt child."

"Honesty is of great-"

"Foremole? Roseheart?"

Roseheart, who had never been fond of Fret, inclined her head towards the Recorder, signalling agreement. And although the Foremole had no more fondness for vermin than his daughter, he felt obliged to at least profess a counter argument.

"Frettie wozn't too bad when 'ee woz a dibbun."

"Humph. I disagree. As we all know, many of us immediately jumped to the correct conclusion in regards to Fret. Even you father abbot, know full well that there were many reservations with letting that boy in. But of course someone-"

"Someone what?" Constance whirled round, her own cooking forgotten.

"Someone ignored what everybeast told them. That Fret would only break their heart and that no good could come of him. By all means, raise the weasels. Love them. Let them into the feasts. But sooner or later we'll find ourselves in the same situation! Mormont's dibbuns gone and not a weasel in sight!"

There was an awkward silence, broken by Abbot Martin. "Forgive me Montague but I believe you are mistaken."

The Recorder opened his mouth to argue- but was immediately interrupted by the abbot.

"We had misgivings in regards to Fret, that much is true. But until this winter he never stepped particularly far out of line. I for one don't believe we have a clear picture of all that has passed since then. Roseheart did not see everything. Where, for example, and when, did Fret have the opportunity to meet these vermin he was so acquainted with? He left the abbey once in all his time here. I would not write him off as a mistake just yet. Regarding the weasels I value your opinions, but on the whole I must override you. As Constance put it, I'm the abbot. They are most likely orphans, and have not left that cellar in weeks. We at Redwall are nothing if not hospitable to any and all creatures-"

"Of good heart." Constance finished for him, a far-away look on her face.

"Yes. The likeliness of vermin having a good heart-"

"Montague, your pan is burning! Please see to it." Adjusting his spectacles the abbot marched off towards the cellars. He had a lot of work to do. It would be best if he could wash the weasels- or at least perfume the girls for he highly doubted they would agree with soap. Dibbuns rarely did after all. And then he would have to find habits for them. The clock was ticking and soon the feast would be upon them- but he wasn't abbot for nothing after all…


	47. A Welcome Feast

**A/N: Berserker88, when have the vermin ever helped their case? XD**

 **Sebias of Redwall, the kitchen scenes were a lot of fun to write (first time I've written such an extended scene in a kitchen that didn't devolve into characters whacking each other with carrots and frying pans(**

 **Abrahem, I wouldn't really say she was more sympathetic. I feel like she kind of agreed with Montague but didn't like the way he put it. I'm not sure now... Spelling's trivial though right? RIGHT!? (I confirm nothing but there might still be a More trips). It's not necessarily that Montague is more mouse-like, but rather because Morreti (much like Guillame) is a foreign name more fitting for a character that didn't live in Mossflower their whole lifetime.**

 **Wait no longer for the feast is here!**

At last it was time for the feast. The exhausted kitchen workers were collapsed onto the nearest benches (and in Bella's case, three) and Abbot Martin too, felt his years creeping up on him. _But_! But it was worth it. No sane beast could possibly look this feast in the eye and fail to fall in love. Even Montague's blackened foodstuffs looked bizzarely appetising (perhaps because none of them had eaten anything all day) and that was saying nothing of Bella's cakes and puddings and all the rich creams and salads, and leek flans and pies and quiches.

The old mouse hastily wiped at the growing drool- lest it ruin one of the many dishes. The only thing the Great Hall missed now, were the hungry people. They would arrive of course, and he would make a speech, but for now he could recline on the pillowed-up chair that was the seat of all previous abbots. It was a rather large chair- designed to hold all woodlander species. Being much smaller than a badger there was plenty of space besides him, occupied- to Montague's chagrin- by the weasels.

Preventing the over-excited pups from devouring the carefully-prepared meal had been a challenge, but Bella had managed. The weasels had heard much of badgers from their older siblings, and while most of it was probably untrue they were not about to risk becoming part of the feast and cutlery for the sake of doubt.

Now the abbeydwellers began to file in, and the heroic cooks hurriedly straightened themselves. Fur was patted down, sweat was wiped away, Montague's spectacles were wiped clean, habits were adjusted. All save for Bella, who by now was snoozing gently.

At the sight of the surprise feast, many grins began to spread and rumbling bellies were patted. Yet here and there stood the aghast face of one who had spotted the weasels.

"What're ye pointin' at!" Snapped Fang, brandishing a spoon.

This drew everybeast's attention to the abbot. Eyebrows were raised, and awkward coughing became a fashion.

Abbot Martin rose, and they eyes went from the weasels to him. "As you can see some of us have decided to surprise you."

There was some chuckling amidst the crowd and the abbot took this as a good thing.

"Spring and Winter have yet to be named, and I think it is in our best interests to name them before summer is upon us."

There was more laughter, and now smiling, the abbot raised a toast. "We have not had a feast in far too long. So without further ado-"

"What are _they_ doing here!?" Barked the Log-a-log, marching to the front, a paw pointed determinedly at the weasels. His fur was more disheveled than ever before, and anybeast with a half-decent nose could say that he'd spent an unhealthy amount of time in the cellars that day.

"They." Abbot Martin said sternly, before the 'they' in question could react. "Are our guests this evening. I trust you all know by now what has taken place. Our children are still missing, but that is no reason to neglect those thrust into our care."

"So they're replacements, eh? We're just supposed to pretend our own kids don't exist anymore? Because we've got vermin dressed in habits-"

"We ain't replacements!"

"They are not replacements. I would never dream of-"

"An' what's this feast for, eh? Our kids are starving somewhere and we're supposed to forget about them because the table's got food on it? I don't want food! I want my son!"

"As do I!" The abbot declared, raising his voice to quell the growing hubub. "I miss those children as much as the next beast! But that does not mean that we have to suffer! What good is our suffering if it does not aid them? Do you think they would be proud of us? Moping and crying and dismissing our duties? Look at the orchard, look at the grounds, look at the hallways! I see dust and dirt and rotten fruit! Supposing they returned right now! Would they prefer to find us laughing and feasting or half-starved and bickering!" The old mouse felt something akin to relief as he said those words… all his frustrations finally released for all to see.

"Eat." Said the fat shrew, hollowly. "Laugh. Smile." He shook his head. "I can't do neither of those anymore." Stomping slowly away the shrew left the hall.

Abbot Martin coughed awkwardly, his appetite quite forgotten. "Well, the feast… I… I suppose…" He sighed heavily and hanging his head in defeat, left the Great Hall.

* * *

Any and all worries he had about how Threeclaw would behave and the reaction of his fellow abbeydwellers were drowned out under the sea of excitement that flooded Matiya from toe-tip to the end of his ears. Heart hammering, and with a goofy smile he could not surpress even if he wanted to, the squirrel knocked at the gates. He waited patiently- bouncing up and down in all but practice- but there was no reply. That was odd. Somebeast was always at the gatehouse…

"Is anybeast at home?" The old hedgepig scratched awkwardly at her nose. "Perhaps we ought to come another time?"

"Yes." Threeclaw's voice conveyed nothing but sarcasm. "Yes we should definitely be turning back around after we just got here. Knock harder."

Matiya did as he was bid, his footpaw tapping impatiently against the snow. If making them wait was Fret's idea of a joke…

"Why aren't they answering?" Threeclaw demanded, stomping over to peek in through the miniscule gap between the walls.

"Maybe they're having dinner?" Matiya suggested. It would explain why nobeast was at the gatehouse. Though normally the gates weren't locked...

"Typical. And I was convinced they would be running to look at you. But no. Apparently food is la priority."

"We should just be patient." Matiya said, anxiously flattening his fur in an attempt at hiding his bruises.

* * *

Abbot Martin did not regret letting the weasels come- the Log-a-log would have come up with something to complain about regardless of them. And although the old mouse understood grief and sadness, the shrew had taken it too far.

"If he had just kept himself to himself..." He resisted the urge to rub his forehead. If perhaps he'd brought the four half-way through… "Too late now, isn't it?" He sighed. The feast had been his last hope, and it had failed spectacularly.

He was not sure what brought him to the gatehouse, only that he was there now. For most of it's history the little cottage had been the home of the Redwall Recorders. Indeed, he had spent much time within it. Yet, ever since that fateful day when Constance had come along with Fret in her paws, the Recorder had been given a room directly within the abbey. Montague had argued, but so had everybeast else. A ferret could not live within the abbey! It was not safe for the other children. Veil Sixclaw had been mentioned half-a-hundred times and in the end the mouse had relented. The gatehouse had been freed of dust and the countless volumes within it, moved. It had then been the home of Constance and Fret.

Furniture was not it's strong suite. A trio of stools, a makeshift oven on the fireplace, a sole table. A pair of beds. There were not many pictures either. A portrait of Constance's parents, a pair of large mice he'd been rather well-acquainted with, two of Constance herself, one alongside her parents with the nervous-looking young Connington, another with the bored-looking Fret. There was one more portrait of Connington, looking rather fine in his new armour and a final one of Rowland.

The Abbot had known the big mouse only in passing. A young troublemaker and not too bright, but with a big heart. There were none of Constance's other children. The ones before Fret. Well… they had probably been too little. Dibbuns rarely stood still long enough for portraits. And unfortunately, none of them had made it past dibbunhood.

Pushing those depressing thoughts aside, the old mouse picked up the one with Fret and Constance. It was gloriously crafted, the spring colours clearer in the picture itself than in the snow-peppered grounds of the abbey outside. Intricate and frustratingly small brushstrokes brought both Constance's well-kept and brown, as well as Fret's messy black and white, fur to life. The mouse looked happier than the abbot remembered seeing her lately, one paw around the ferret's shoulders, the other raised in a half-wave. Fret did not know where to put his arms and they stood loose at his side. Boredom was beautifully captured on the young ferret's face.

That had been on the Spring Feast a few seasons before- the Recorder had done portraits of everybeast, having received a set of vibrant inks as a gift from a Southwards hamster that had been their guest that day. The hamster had also brought several barrels of olive extract. Unfortunately Fret had somehow mixed up the barrels and instead of strawberry cordial everybeast had drank the olive oil. It was a rather unpleasant memory come to think of it…

Abbot Martin had never understood Constance's mothering of Fret. In truth he had always thought the ferret a replacement. That he'd only been picked up because her own children had been killed. Many had shared the sentiment, but he was beginning to have doubts. Constance was a kind beast by nature, strength she had, but strength was not what was needed to kill a babe. And what _was_ required, Constance lacked. Raising him had perhaps helped her cope, but she would have done the same irrespective of the fate of her own young.

Fret had always been quiet, especially in his younger seasons, and Abbot Martin had never known him too well. That was his fault. He, as Montague had pointed out, had expected nothing good to come of him and as a result had kept him at paw's length.

Perhaps if he hadn't he'd have realised why it was Constance had loved him so much. Well, he understood now. More than ever before. Parental love knew not the boundaries of vermin and woodlander.

And that was why she'd loved Fret. And why he'd let the weasels join the feast.

Delicately, he placed the portrait down.

But perhaps their love was misplaced. Perhaps it could only end in heartbreak…

The peace and quiet (and moroseness) of the gatehouse was interrupted all of a sudden, by a knocking at the gate.

* * *

"Patience is a virtue Mr Threeclaw."

"Well I am not being virtuous, am I?" The stoat snapped, looking semi-deranged as he hammered at the gates with a stick (having already 'broken' every bone in both paws). "And it is not being polite to keep beasts waiting." The stick shattered and the stoat deflated. Hurling the remaining stump at an unfortunate dandelion, he stomped away from the gates and sat down heavily. Every movement seemed to convey nothing but pure frustration.

"Perhaps I could climb in?" Matiya wondered aloud, searching the walls for any nook and crannies to aid him in this quest.

"Supposing you fell off and your skull ends up casé- yes that means broken!- what would we be saying to the abbeybeasts?"

"It was just an idea…" Matiya mumbled.

Just then a familiar face poked out from the wall above. Abbot Martin looked both surprised and delighted.

"M-matiya?"

"In the fur father abbot sir." The squirrel replied, once again made aware of his unkempt appearance. There were snowflakes in his fur.

The abbot looked even more surprised at having been replied to, and hastily scurried away- presumably to open the gates.

"You never told me your padre was a mouse."

Matiya blinked, before rolling his eyes.

"It's just a title. My actual dad is most likely in Southwards… not like I ever see him anyways…"

The stoat got to his feet, and Matiya was surprised to see that his paws were shaking. To disguise this Threeclaw rubbed them together, as if he were merely cold.

It was strange to see the swords master so frightened. Throughout all their travelling he'd almost always oozed confidence and charisma. To see him scared, of a place Matiya called home no less, was equal parts unnerving and hilarious.

Matiya too, was shaking, but for entirely different reasons. He would not find judgement in Redwall, but delight and happiness- and as his stomach reminded him now- food!

After what felt like forever, the gates were opened, and old Abbot Martin sprung forwards with the speed of one many seasons younger. Before Matiya knew it, he was being hugged. The abbot had never been this sentimental towards him… The squirrel found himself strangely comforted and embarrassed. Both because Threeclaw was snickering and because he was unable to return the gesture for the old abbot had pinned his arms to his side.

"I don't think I've ever been happier to see anybeast!" The abbot declared, finally releasing him to wipe at his spectacles. "Look at you! You're real an-and- tall! I thought I'd gone mad bu-but you're actually here!"

Matiya did not know how to reply to that beyond grinning. He was then made aware that he hadn't brushed his teeth in ages…

"And look at you Grollo!" Martin said, replacing the spectacles. Like a star from the heavens, the Abbot's face fell. "You- you- you're not Grollo?"

Threeclaw tapped at Matiya's shoulder and indicated the wide open gates. Abbot Martin had not yet noticed him.

"I suppose I should say welcome home." He said quietly. There was something in his eyes the squirrel had never seen before, but a moment later the stoat had turned away and began walking cautiously into the abbey grounds. Matiya at first, followed at the same pace. But the closer they came, the faster he moved until he was quite sure he was running.

* * *

"Well. That was a waste of food." Montague said. Nobeast had wanted to stay in the awkwardness of the Great Hall, and taking tokenistic pieces of the feast with them, left. Bella was still snoring on the benches and the rest of the brave kitchen workers were either nibbling at their hard work or slumping in defeat.

"All our hard work for nothing!" The Recorder snapped, apparently determined to make a scene. He stabbed a fork into the table. "Let's make a feast they said! It would work they said! At this rate we'll starve ourselves to death!"

"Will you just shut up?" Constance half-asked, half-demanded. "So the feast was a bad idea, like I've never had any of those."

"No. You've just had one too many." He muttered.

* * *

Matiya was definitely running by the time he reached the front doors. Threeclaw was far behind, following at a more natural pace and he was quite sure Abbot Martin and the old hedgehog were still at the gates.

He burst through the front doors, a blur of red fur that only narrowly managed to not fall over in an attempt at slowing down. Unable to contain his excitement any longer it burst from him in an erruption of joy.

"Didyoumissmebecausenowyoudon'thavetobecauseI'mback!" This was greeted with nothing but silence. He really did not have a way with words… "Um, hello?" He flattened his chest-fur, not that that helped his pattering heart relax.

More for something to do than because he thought anybeast might be there, the squirrel pushed open the doors to the Great Hall and peaked in.

For half a second the feast stole his eyes, but then they turned to a small sound.

"Matiya?"

"Rose!" Now it was the squirrel's turn to play the hugger. "I've missed you." Swiftly, he released her, a thousand questions he wanted to ask rushing deep into the back of his mind.

He was saved from any potential embarrassment by the Foremole, who ruffled the fur between his ears and declared for all to hear.

"Oi bet this'll smoile up the oold Lug-a-lug."

"Great seasons! We're all hallucinating!" The Recorder declared, hastily wiping his glasses to get a better look at the scene.

Even Bella's snoring sounded joyful.

"Where's everybeast else?" Matiya asked, turning to Roseheart. Before the molemaid could answer she went very pale. A moment later Matiya knew exactly why.

Standing behind him, fake-smirk at the ready, was Threeclaw. The stoat waved his three-clawed paw in greeting, but before any introductions could be made there came a delighted cry.

"THREECLAW!" Four tiny weasels, covered from tail to nose in all kinds of food, shot towards the stoat faster than was possible, and latched onto whatever they could reach, be it his tail or his feetpaws. The albino looked stunned at the sight of them- clad in both foodstains and habits.

"Woi'z 'ee 'ere?" Roseheart asked, shaking like a leaf. The young mole had had countless nightmares of the incident. Threeclaw was always in them, smiling deceptively or gutting them at the tip of his rapier.

"'Oo'z 'ee?" The Foremole asked, holding his daughter tight in an attempt at chasing away her terror.

"Well he kidnapped us-" Matiya started, but the stoat shoved him aside.

"Threeclaw." The stoat said, bowing low. He reached out and swiftly caught hold of one of Roseheart's paws. Before anybeast could react he had kissed it. "Je suis enchante de vous encore meeting." He stood back up and patted the befuddled Foremole's shoulder. "You have a very brave daughter on your paws mi copain."

Then Threeclaw slunk away, having caught sight of a beautifully made pastry he was determined to sink his teeth into.

Before any further questions could be asked, another voice spoke out from the hallways.

"M-m-matiya?"

"Mother!"

Blind Agatha very nearly fainted away at the sound of his voice, before throwing him in a hasty hug. Evidently the old beasts had become better at it since his departure. "D-dear what's happened to you? Bruises all over, and your fur-" Much to the young squirrel's chagrin his mother began grooming him.

"Muuuuuuuum! I'm fine! Really!"

The other abbeybeasts did not seem to take note of his displeasure- but Threeclaw did and gave a silent and exaggerated fake-laugh behind their backs. Matiya replied the only way he knew how, by sticking his tongue out.

"-Snow in your fur and goodness! You must be starving!" The next thing he knew, he was seated and a tremendous pile of food was placed before him. Some of it was burned, and in their rush to bring him food everybeast forgot that he loathed leeks and mushrooms, but quite frankly Matiya did not care. A return home had never tasted so good.

Somebeast must have spread the news, for soon the whole abbey was there, wishing him a welcome home and asking him the same three hundred questions. Which he really could not answer what with his mouth being always full and all.

"We have been looking for you," said a shrew he had never spoken too before. "All bloody winter! Wait 'till the Log-a-log hears!"

Their was a genuine attitude of merriment about the place, and Matiya did not remember a more perfect day.

"I'm glad you're back dear." Said Rosebrush, though there were tears in her eyes. That was when he realized Momchillo had not yet said his greetings. Nor had Hawthorn. Or Tibbers or Jack. Or Fret or-

"Where are the others?" He whispered towards Roseheart, who was seated besides him. "Momchillo and Fret? Jack and Tibbers?"

"Not back yet." Said Friar Gord, who had heard him. The hedgehog forced a smile. "But at least you're with us."

Matiya's jaw dropped. The news hit him like a sledgehammer. "W-wh-what do you mean they're not back yet- it's been all winter!"

He must have spoken too loudly, for almost instantly the hall was silent again.

"We mean that thankfully you're still alive, but unfortunately the same cannot be said about your peers who, as you can see, are not among us." Replied the Recorder with characteristic bluntness.

Just as sullen silence began to spread it's slimy paws all over the Great Hall, the Log-a-log (still drunk as ever, but bizzarelly cheerful now) hurled a pair of burnt pies at him. Laughter filled the hall again but Matiya was left feeling sorry for the frustrated writer, who stomped away without another word.

Matiya felt guilt begin to bubble in the pit of his stomach and the squirrel could not eat another bite.

It had seemed like the obvious choice. The one any decent beast would make if given the chance. Guilt had nagged at him then. Liar liar liar liar… He slumped in his seat and the squirrel's dejection did not go unnoticed by those around him.

The Friar put a comforting paw on his back. "Now now, you know the Recorder, always making everything more miserable than it is. I'm sure your friends are fine. Who knows, maybe they're knocking at the gates as we speak?"

That was unlikely, but Matiya was cheered up upon remembering that Grollo and Hawthorn were on their way here… with Sharpfur…

A sudden yelp drove his attention back to Threeclaw, who now hung in the air, Bella's paws clamped around his middle like a pair of pincers.

Many others turned to stare at the sight.

"Put him down ye dumb badger!" Snapped Fang from around a half-eaten turnover. Her siblings brandished their own barely eaten foodstuffs.

"Anybeast care to explain what this vermin's doing eating at our feast?"

"Maybe he's hungry!" Wheezed the stoat, thrashing in the mighty grip of his captor.

"Er- he's with me." Matiya raised a paw. Several beasts gave the young squirrel startled looks, as if he'd said a bad word. "Threeclaw's been… taking care of me…" He did not like the way everybeast suddenly seemed to notice his bruises.

"He didn't hit you, did he?" The Friar gave voice to the question on everyone's mind.

"No." Was the squirrel's immediate reply. "I got them er- wrestling a frog."

"Big frog." Threeclaw wheezed in agreement, his face going cherry red from lack of air. "Troi big frogs."

Although some looked at him skeptically, noone refuted the squirrel's claim. Just when it seemed Bella was about to relinquish her grip, another voice called from the din.

"Hey! I think I recognize this vermin!" Declared a hare, prodding the stoat with a salad fork. "He was one of the kidnappers!" The hare turned to another. "You remember, the one that climbed the anchor to get away?"

The addressed hare's eyes widened in recognition, just as Threeclaw started going purple. "You're bally right you know!"

"No!" Matiya shouted, drawing all eyes to himself. "I mean, yes, he was a kidnapper at first- b-but h-he he saved my life!" It was not strictly true, but the squirrel needed something radical. "There was a-a bird! A giant sparrow and it v-very nearly carried me off! Goodness knows where I'd be if it weren't for Threeclaw! J-j-just let him go. Please ju-just- he needs to breathe!"

Maybe they believed him, or maybe it was the frantic way he'd said it that had convinced them to spare the stoat.

Gently, Bella placed the albino on the table, where Threeclaw hastily began swallowing air.

"Sorry about that." She said slowly, her eyes narrowed in mistrust.

"No... worries." The stoat said, rubbing at sore ribs. To say he was disgruntled would have been an understatement.

"It appears we are indebted to you." The badgermum sat back down. Despite said gesture she still towered over the stoat. "Threeclaw. Saving our child from that sparrow. And those frogs…" Her eyes were narrowed enough for the albino to shrink in on himself.

"M-Matiya's a-a bon copain." He replied, crawling off the table and onto his feetpaws while keeping eye contact with the large badger lest she try a surprise attack.

"Indeed."

A kind of tension began to set in. Incredibly aware that he was outnumbered, outgunned and unarmed while surrounded by perhaps a hundred less-than-friendly woodlanders, Threeclaw picked up a muffin and began to nibble at it.

It was a relief to all when Abbot Martin walked in. Threeclaw slunk to a corner- incidentally Fret's preferred spot at one point- and all eyes were upon the mouse and the old hedgehog besides him.

Abbot Martin had just spent a rather enjoyable afternoon hearing of the exploits of his students. Relief and joy filled him to the brim and not even the foulest of thunderstorms could put a damper on his smile.

"Friends, this is Lily Prickla. She has been looking after our children all winter long. Giving Grollo and Hawthorn and ahem, Sharpfur, her food and hospitality all winter long and I would be greatly ashamed if we fail to outdo her!"

There came a hearty cheer, and the Log-a-log unwisely slapped the back of the nearest abbeybeast- this was unwise because the nearest abbeybeast was Grollo's mother.

"I take it you have all met a Threeclaw?" The abbot asked over the fat shrew's cries of pain.

"Oh they have." The stoat in question supplied rather grumpily, the soreness of his ribs not quite gone yet.

"Well, I would like to extend the paw of friendship towards you. Irrespective of any and all ill deeds you may have done, you have brought us good news and Matiya home. Our thanks go with you as does an offer of hospitality."

The stoat cocked his head to the side, the ghost of a smile beginning to dance along his lips and clashing viciously with the startled face he pulled.

"Of course, we can leave anything of import for the morning. For now my friends, we have got a lot to celebrate and anybeast I catch not enjoying themselves," He sent a mock-stern glare along the rows of seated beasts. "Can spend the rest of tomorow on dish duty."

With a final hearty laugh the feast began properly, and it was just as Abbot Martin had promised the weasels. There was no dancing, and there was some music. And lots, and lots, of vittles.

* * *

 _Footnote: The second re-union of this story (Fret and Momchillo's was the first one in case you were wondering) and while not necessarily a reckoning there was some tension to it (I think so anyways). For now Threeclaw seems to have pulled a Karma Houdini, let's see how long he can keep it that way._

 _As fun as setting up this reunion was and despite everything that still needs to be cleared up (a lot of things, since this chapter was short and semi-unfocused) we'll be taking a break from Matiya and Threeclaw and heading back slightly further North to either Greyclaw or Sharpfur (haven't decided yet)._

 _Regardless I hope you enjoyed the chapter. Unnecessary question since I think I already know the answers but this seems to be a thing in the Redwall fandom at this point, who's your favourite character?_


	48. Spring At Salamandastron

**A/N: AlexFalTalon, we will be seeing plenty more of Marik going forwards, no need to worry about that ;)**

 **Abrahem, Yeah, I just thought it would be a nice twist if they got to the abbey… and then had to wait just a little longer to actually get into the abbey. Funnily enough if not for the Log-a-log they'd have done quite a bit more waiting.**

 **Yes, well if you think that's tense just wait until everything about what happened becomes clear- technically speaking Threeclaw is responsible more or less entirely for the missing children (butterfly effect yes, but he started it) and he's now surrounded by their parents. He's not quite in the clear yet.**

 **To be fair Fret didn't learn much restraint either- what they have that he doesn't is a sense of identity (they are vermin and proud of it, whereas Fret was in denial of it, and is now horrified by it) which is somewhat ironic considering they didn't have names until recently XD**

 **Ahem, I don't want to get your hopes up too much- but I feel like I should say this now (and probably should have said it earlier) we will see frogs- but Sharpfur's not going to be the one dealing with them. Ultimately I went with Greyclaw to continue the somewhat light-hearted feel of the last chapters (because, Threeclaw's predicament aside, the previous chapter wasn't exactly edge of the seat suspense) no worries though, we shall return to Sharpfur shortly.**

 **(For the record I was talking about these characters, but your opinions on the canon ones are nice too :)**

 **Yes, Constance has felt slightly neglected as of late- gonna have to rectify that the next time we're in Redwall.**

 **Also, if I figure out how to remove bank details (it's nothing personal but I don't really know who you are so won't trust you with the four dollars on my account XD) I could offer to let you use my Kobo books account (issan app). I have some of the Redwall (e)books on it (and I think the original but I'll have to confirm that). Just an offer, but first, to secure my four dollars.**

 **Hmm, yes, we shall have to work on that. (Unfortunately podfics have the same bad rep as fanfics and furries…)**

 **Thank you for your opinions (more variety than I expected to be honest- but that's a good thing)**

 **I kind of moved away from songs, but I guess… if it fits the scene… maybe. Honestly your reviews help brainstorming XD**

 **(And now I remember! Yeah, that one poem was rather good. Keyla is also working on her own (I think it's a her… but you never know on the internet…) story so you may want to keep an eye out for that.**

 **Yeah, Sharpfur and the Recorder… to be honest when this is all done I think I'll end up *cough*copying Berserker88 as I always do*cough* writing a drabble collection for all these characters. Because honestly at this point almost every chapter can be classified as a drabble (not a bad thing but this story is slow…)**

 **Heroic sacrifices… hmm… obviously no confirmations and all that- but that would be hard to do seeing as I am rather attached to them...**

 **I didn't change that- don't feel dumb everyone misses a detail or two- I just felt like it was necessary to show that Constance giving up on Fret never happened while she was in a normal state of mind. It would somehow feel wrong that she did all she did for him only to turn her back on him the second she hears something bad happened. She had a lot to process at the time between Fret and missing children and Skip.**

 ***Gasps* I didn't make them evil enough? Well… MUAHAHAHAHAHAHA... Just wait till you see exactly why Snakeskin had a falling out with them...**

 **Sebias, once again, if not for the Log-a-log Matiya and company would have done quite a bit more waiting. Once more- Threeclaw isn't in the clear yet (and yes, he had very little fun in Bella's paws)- although I am glad the last chapter gave some sort of satisfaction and took the plot somewhere (honestly Matiya and Threeclaw have done almost nothing of interest since Book I) Glad you like Abbot Martin- he's fun to write. (And the pie-chucking was very much a necessity- had to be done by somebeast)**

 **Lord demon, Nice to see you're still alive- thought you might've been dragged back into the underworld XD**

 **Firestar the Warrior, It'll probably be a while before you see this- but I'm glad you're liking the story so far.**

 **Remnants of Fantasy, Thanks, your review was rather flattering (even though it's debatable- I mean the Redwall books were a bit more kid-friendly but I'm glad you think so)**

 **Yes well characters are what I do best. And don't worry- it most certainly will not end like Outcast (it'll probably be less vague and more satisfying)**

 **And I think you're right about Clogg- while there is some room for the 'he's using him' card- I think ultimately his reaction to Fret's disappearance says it best.**

 **I was hesitant about the Greyclaw twist mostly because I've never done a big twist (complete with foreshadowing and whatnot) before- plus the fact that wouldn't it mean I was technically lying every time I wrote 'the rat'. I mean, it was planned from the beginning and I built up to it- but I wasn't sure if I'd actually do it. That said I am very glad I did do it (also very glad that it surprised you! Ha! I caught one person by surprise! That's like a record, isn't it? Isn't it!?)**

 **Your last paragraph is *so* relatable- I remember skipping through most of Mattimeo's Redwall chapters and going right into anything with Slagar- same goes for most books. (And I'm glad nothing here has dulled you! Yet anyways...)**

 **D-dying!? I must write! I must!**

 **Well here ye go- hope yer not dead yet.**

* * *

In times of crisis, Greyclaw had found no greater comfort than food. Oh actual comforting was good too, but where was he supposed to get it from? Jack was busy, Tibbers didn't understand, Victoria and Angus and Andrew and the Skipper were… well… dangerous. He'd seen the way they spoke of vermin- the way the twins bragged about killing 'no good scum', the way Victoria stabbed the rat-faced dummies…

He was a mouse, apparently, he ought to have no cause for fear. He was amongst other woodlanders… but hadn't he always been a rat?

* * *

 _"Yer a mouse." Heartrip teased, a pointed grin plastered to her muzzle._

 _Greyclaw shook his head timidly._

 _"He ain't a mouse stupid!" Sharpfur snapped. This had been a long time ago, when Greyclaw had been little and Sharpfur littler and Heartrip, Blizzard and Redtail your typical older siblings._

 _"Ma said ye had to let us play with you." The littlest weasel continued, his wrists on his hips. "So ye have to let us play or ma'll have yer ears." Greyclaw was still not sure why Sharpfur always wanted to play with his siblings. He would much prefer staying with Sickletail and Silvertongue, they usually kept him occupied one way or another and there was less danger involved._

 _"I ain't playing with a mouse and a runt."_

 _"I ain't a runt!" Sharpfur snapped, the furs along his back rising up in rage. "Just wait! One day I'll be bigger than ye!" As an afterthought the weasel added. "And Grey ain't a mouse or ma wouldn't have picked him up, would she?"_

 _Heartrip opened her mouth to continue teasing- but was interrupted._

 _"We already told ye." Blizzard snapped, growing impatient. "We ain't babysittin' ye. Go and bother Threeclaw."_

 _Greyclaw liked Threeclaw, even though the stoat scared him. He was usually quite nice and if he was in a good mood would even take them swimming. Mostly to torment Sharpfur, who was scared of water, but Greyclaw loved swimming. Perhaps it was better if they went to see Threeclaw._

 _"It ain't babysittin' coz we ain't babies. Now let us play or I'll tell Ma you lot bit an otter."_

 _"H-how do ye know that?" Redtail asked. Refusing to look after their naggy little brothers was one thing- not an act of defiance so much as a declaration of independence. But a fight with otters? That would land them in a whole load of trouble..._

 _"I heard ye bragging about nickin' his rump. And I know that Gulash didn't give ye that black eye coz I was with Gulash." Sharpfur smirked, having outsmarted his siblings through the power of hearing. "So. What are we playing?"_

 _Blizzard grumbled and frowned, but at last relented. "We were gonna go snake-huntin' at the quarry. But now we have to play hide and seek or something because we have to look after the widdle babies. Want me te hold yer widdle paws or something?"_

 _"Why're ye looking at me when ye say widdle, eh?" Growled Sharpfur, his tiny paws clenched into fists. "Coz I ain't little and ye know it!"_

 _"We can still go snake-huntin'." Heartrip declared. Scuttling behind her little brothers she placed a pair of paws on Greyclaw's shoulders. "We just found ourselves the perfect bait."_

 _"B-bait?" Greyclaw gulped._

 _Redtail smirked, realising what his sister was up to. "Oh yes bait. One whiff of you Grey and every snake in Mossflower'll come slithering for a bite. Maybe even two or three."_

 _"It won't hurt much." Blizzard explained, pinching the rat's stomach. "Just a little pinch here and there." To underline his point he pinched the rat's tail-tip. It stung and Greyclaw had to bite back a whimper._

 _"And then when they swallow ye we catch 'em!"_

 _"S-swallow?"_

 _"Whole an' kickin'!"_

 _"Don't worry though, we'll let ye out."_

 _"Maybe in a few hours."_

 _"Days more like."_

 _"Maybe never." Said Blizzard with a carefree shrug. "One less mouth to feed ye know. Maybe Sharpfur'd be bigger if ye didn't scoff all his food."_

 _"The snake'd be happy too. All that extra paddin'."_

 _"It's decided." Declared Heartrip. "We're goin' snake-huntin'!"_

 _Greyclaw turned and fled as fast as his chubby little legs could carry him. The older weasels roared with laughter behind him but he did not stop._

 _Sharpfur growled. He never played without Greyclaw and now stomped away determinedly, throwing a half-hearted kick at Redtail as he passed._

 _"Ye think we took it too far?" Blizzard asked when they were out of earshot of the two._

 _"Nah." Said Heartrip. "But we'd better get goin' before they call ma."_

 _Greyclaw sniffled from the safety of his hiding place- a small willow tree next to the river. It's thick, leafy folds hid him from view and stiffled the sounds of his crying. It was a joke of course- his siblings would never feed him to a snake. But it had still hurt and he was soft. So sniffle he did._

 _Sharpfur found him a few seconds later- more than used to following Greyclaw to his 'hide-out' by now. "It was a joke Grey." The weasel complained. He had never been comfortable with his rat brother's sensitivity. "Anyhow ye know I wouldn't let the snakes bite ye."_

 _Greyclaw sniffled again and Sharpfur awkwardly rubbed at his nose._

 _"Ye want us te go swimmin' or?"_

 _A simple question, but a monumental gesture from Sharpfur._

 _But Greyclaw shook his head and wiped his eyes and nose. He would not force Sharpfur into doing something he would not like. The weasel hated water._

 _Now that he was no longer in the presence of a crying beast, Sharpfur grinned. "Those idjits think they've outsmarted us. But wait till Ma hears about the otter incident! Oh boy! She'll have their ears in a twist afore ye an' I can start laughing!"_

 _But Greyclaw hadn't laughed- although Sharpfur did more than enough laughing for the both of them, when Sickletail had confronted their siblings with the forbidden knowledge. Needless to say, their ears had been twisted._

* * *

He wasn't laughing now either, his mouth stuffed with cake, his eyes with tears. He was so confused! And scared! Was he a rat or a mouse? Did it matter? Were his family dead? Where were they if not? Would they care if he was a mouse? And if he was a mouse would he still be Greyclaw or would he become Berty for real? But Berty sounded wrong! Perhaps he could change his name-

"Comfort eatin' again?" Tibbers shook his head. "At the rate you're going you'll end up wider than a badger." That was when the shrew noticed the red around his eyes. "Nightmare?" He asked, helping Grey Berty Banana Bartholomew Claw to his feet (Hellgates that name was too long! It couldn't be real…)

Greyclaw nodded meekly. "I- they- the tonic doesn't help!"

Tibbers now began to lead him away from the desicrated kitchen- desperate to leave before the cook caught them. "Have you been taking it?"

"Well… no…" Greyclaw rubbed the back of his neck. He had wanted to, of course. But every time he'd picked up the phial (in itself a great labour for it was badger-sized) he could hear Sick-Eyes rattling on about how she'd seen badgers tear beasts in two. Perhaps it was because he'd been easy to scare- but the old pine marten had especially loved to terify him. Deathglare too, though he hadn't done it on purpose. It was just the way he always spoke quietly that made Grey nervous. And his eyes. His eyes were scary too.

Yet, frightening though they were, he'd loved them. They'd been part of the same crew at least...

"I think you should give it a try." The little shrew encouraged. "I mean, what's the worst that can happen."

"Supposing I choke on it. Or I don't like the taste."

"And is that better or worse than bad dreams? Personally I'd put on my brave face and swallow a cup. I mean… it can't be the worst-tasting medicine in the world, eh?"

"B-b-but I don't have a brave face." He had never been 'brave'. Everybeast had always said that bravery was stupid. Cunning, cunning was important. But he'd never been cunning! You had to be clever to be cunning and he wasn't clever either. Sharpfur had been the clever one.

"Well, you don't need one. Look. You'll take the tonic tonight and- and I'll take it with you. If it's bad it's bad. But it's worth a try, isn't it?"

Tibbers was also clever. Small, still careful to be nowhere near him on the dinner table, and a shrew. Yet if not for him and Jack, Grey would be dead and Berty would never exist.

* * *

That had been a long while ago now. Grey had taken the tonic and the nightmares had faded away. Now, in the ridiculously hot heat of early spring (they were in a desert after all), Berty was in a dessert. Again. Well, he was supposed to be eating it- but manners had never been an important part of life in the Honest Bunch- nor was it particularly important amongst the Long Patrol. Sure a few beasts stared, but by now everybeast was used to him.

"Berty! Berty! Berty!" Angus and Andrew cheered, their paws banging on the table, their tails slapping the floor. The twins had developed a kind of obsession with watching the mouserat (he was still undecided) eat. Perhaps it was the unorthodox method of diving in, or the speed with which he could demolish (or rather, devour) a badger-sized serving of strawberry pie that fascinated them. That or they just wanted to know how fat he could get.

Perhaps it was because of Victoria's 'training regime' (a form of torture he'd never encountered before), or the hot sun that melted flab in the form of near-constant sweat, but he had gained next to no weight. He had gained no muscles either, but Victoria- or as he liked to call her, Vicky, didn't like hearing that so he never said that.

At last he finished the pie, and sat down with a tremendous belch that would have made any mild-mannered creature faint clean away.

"And at long last,"

"The heroic mouse,"

"Swallowed the crumb,"

"His belly was already numb?"

The two shook their head. Music was not their strong suite either- and apart from swimming, Greyclaw did not think they had a strong suite.

"Yes well, swallowing crumbs isn't going to make anybeast any more heroic." To Victoria there was always a battle going on. Sometimes two even. Rigid determination. Strict morals and mannerisms. "Songs are written to remember important figures and battles. Not the swallowing of pies."

Jack opened his mouth to try and list all the songs he knew that had nothing to do with either figures or battles, but Victoria shut him down.

"Close your mouth Jack before the lettuce falls out. You've already dropped your brain as is."

Indigantly the hare swallowed. "I'll have you know tha-"

"So, Berty, I was thinking we could start training you for naval combat." The mouse continued speaking, leaving Jack-is-Lucky to fume over his meal. He'd just been about to unleash the Ballad of Salad on her…

"Navel combat?" The rat repeated, staring at his belly. "I don't think they're built for fighting really. I suppose I could belly flop somebeast. Or sit on them."

"I'm not talking about your stomach."

Greyclaw cocked his head to the side, his mouth slightly agape. "Then what were you talking about?"

"Naval means water mate." Andrew provided.

"No it doesn't!" Scolded his twin. "It means to do with water."

"Well there won't be any of that belly-flopping tosh anyways, wot." Said the Junior Corporal, leaping into the conversation with the big long words of any hare- he also leapt onto the table to get their attention, using his big, long legs. "I've arranged an expedition!" There were several layers of excitement in his voice. It was rather like being confronted with a dibbun on a sugar-rush. From the depths of his perfectly crease-less uniform, he withdrew a map.

A chubby finger traced a line along a blue line that Grey knew was a river. A little squiggle gave them it's name but Berty couldn't read- the Honest Bunch had never taught him and the others didn't know of this inability of his. "We are going to be patrolling this here riverbank. It's unlikely we bump into any troubles or that sort of thing- but isn't it exciting? A really spliffing opportunity to work on our marching if I say so myself, wot wot. Not to mention that if something does arise it'll be our duty to deal with it!"

"Something?" Victoria raised an eyebrow.

"Oh you know, vermin bands and cannibals- pirates, that sort of thing. I mean, we probably won't run into anything serious, wot. But still! The Badgerlord himself gave me permission! He trusts me!"

"Calm down before you wet yourself- that's a nice pie you're standing over." Angus advised.

The rotund corporal sat down on the bench (accidentally squashing Tibbers) only slightly flustered by the comment.

"Of course, if you don't want to come you don't have to. But I thought it would be a great experience. Upholding law and order and all the rest!"

"It's just a patrol." Jack-is-Lucky rolled his eyes. "You'd think we were going to save Mossflower or something."

"We might be! You never know what might happen! Lord Umber even said so himself!"

"Eh we'll go." Angus and Andrew spoke in unison, their nonchalant shrugs identical to the very last whisker.

"Well I probably have to go anyways since this is part of training and all, wot." Jack nodded. "But it's been a while since I've left this place."

"It's settled then! I'll go let the other squadrons know!" This really meant 'I'll go brag to everybeast in sight' but that was beside the point. Tibbers was glad to see him leave to say the least.

"I fancy having a swim in water that isn't salty for a change." Angus announced, stretching his paws wide.

"No more stinging eyes for us mate!"

"I don't think I'll go." Greyclaw said quietly, hoping that nobeast would hear. Unfortunately he had underestimated their hearing.

"Why not Gr- Berty? Patrol duty's a lot of fun. Think of it like a game of 'eye-spy' and you'll never be bored again."

Sharpfur had always hated that game. He'd only played it in times of extreme boredom and even then only to annoy anybeast in earshot.

"Well - er, I dunno. I just feel a little tired." He hastily gave what was obviously a fake-yawn. "Didn't get much sleep."

"You clever rat!" Angus exclaimed, slamming his paw upon the table. Greyclaw momentarily seized up- terrified that the truth he was now uncertain of had been revealed- but it was a false alarm. "You just want a clean shot at the kitchens!"

Gales of laughter followed his words (not to mention a glare from the cook that could have melted right through thick rock) and Greyclaw went pink around the ears, but could think of no reply. There was a tugging at his tail, and Greyclaw found Victoria motioning for him to sit besides her. He did as he was bid- ignoring the wolf-whistles Angus and Andrew sent his way. The twins were good at teasing- almost as good as his older brothers- and he made the perfect target.

The mousemaid ignored them, knowing full well that they only did that to bug her. Berty was sweet in his silliness, and so naive it wouldn't have surprised her if he walked out a window. Did she care about him? Yes, but only because he couldn't take care of himself.

Greyclaw did his best to tune them out- the pair always made him uncomfortable somehow. Anyhow it wasn't like there was any merit to it. Vicky was nice, but she frightened him- and had he still lived with the Honest Bunch, probably would have slain him. But she was nice to Berty and he was probably a mouse anyway, so he liked her.

"I know everything seems scary when you've been away from it awhile." She said, as the otters moved on to annoying Tibbers; 'The good Corporal didn't _sit_ on you, did he?' "But you can't stay hidden in here forever Berty. When I first got here I didn't want to leave either. I thought that if I set a footpaw outside something horrible would happen. But nothing bad ever happened. Look, I'm sure what the vermin did to you was horrible- but the world is beautiful and you can't let beasts like that dictate how you live your life. Just because there are monsters outside these walls doesn't mean you shouldn't face them. When life spits in your face, spit back and say 'do your worst' and you'll never be scared again."

"Erm, I'm not really scared." He wasn't scared of having to deal with pirates or the like. He'd been a sort of pirate after all, which said a lot about how broad the single word was. In truth he didn't want to go because, even if he was a mouse, it would somehow plague him with guilt to be part of a Long Patrol patrol- he'd been raised to run from them and hide from them and stay clear of them. Not be them!

Victoria patted his shoulder. "Berty, a bat could tell you were terrified and they're half-blind. But you have nothing to be scared of. It's unlikely we bump into anything- still too early for any wrongdoers to come out of their hideouts- but even if we do what's the worst that can happen? You won't find a horde a day's march from Salamandastron, the other patrols would already have spotted them. And I think I can handle one or two vermin."

Well… that depended on the vermin. If he was a rat, than yes, she could very easily 'handle' him. But Sharpfur was debatable and there was no way she could beat Threeclaw or Gulash or Deathglare or Sharpfur's Ma. Nevertheless he did not want to hurt her feelings, for Vicky took great pride in being an excellent combatant, and nodded.

"So you'll come?" She asked, turning back to her salad.

"Go on Berty."

"She's inviting you."

"Can't refuse a sweet lass like her, can you?"

Greyclaw shifted uncomfortably in his seat at the sight of Angus winking at the pair.

"Well, I suppose so. I guess I'll go."

"Hooray! Alright! I'll go get ready now. I expect the Corporal will want us to leave any minute." With that Jack-is-Lucky took his leave, only pausing once to snatch a pair of toasts on his way out.

"Well I can't go." Said Tibbers flatly. "Last time I went on any kind of expedition I got stabbed in the shoulder. I'll just be on the walltops or something. You never know when somebeast'll come knocking." He sighed and before another word could be said, turned to leave, his tiny tail dragging across the ground behind him.

"What's up with him?" Asked Andrew.

"Probably the shoulder wound."

"Aye, that'll be it."

"Or the Corporal sitting on him."

"Yeah that happens quite often."

"It's not always the Corporal though, is it?"

"Maybe I should stay with Tibbers." Greyclaw suggested. His family were probably dead- but they'd be watching him from Hellgates and... The shame! Joining the Long Patrol. He'd never be able to live that down in the afterlife... "He might get lonely."

"We'll kidnap a shrew for him." Angus suggested.

"A nice pretty shrewmaid to keep him company."

"Then we'll have two pair of lovebirds standing around."

Victoria glared at the two- but Greyclaw had never been a master of comprehension. "Who're the other two?"


	49. Gently Down The Stream

**A/N: AlexFalTalon, Greyclaw Vs Victoria* coming soon (although it'll most likely be a verbal fight. Greyclaw isn't exactly the combat expert- no matter how hard she tries to change that XD)**

 **Lord Demon, I'll give it a looksie. And alright-the detective personality actually fits perfectly into what I have planned. Halloween special it is. Although, that most likely means we won't see him until the Halloween after I finish this...**

 **Sebias of Redwall, Very shrew-d guess there. We shall see their patrol next time. For now we're with our other travelling heroes who we haven't seen in a while ;)**

 **Abrahem, To be fair I think I managed to read one or two stories 'fresh from the oven' (ten minutes after publication) so yeah, I'd say it's healthy (besides this story isn't junk food... Although too much of it might still kill you XD)**

 **The Junior Corporal is the same hare from the first Salamandastron chapter- it does make a bit of a difference in Redwall. Rabbits are rather meek in this world, hares are more boisterous, outgoing and a little eccentric. I'd put him at a bit older than Angus and Andrew (who are in turn older than the rest) who are all in turn older than Tibbers who is the youngest. Was it them? Eh, it could be- but I think it's unlikely they could give anybeast a black eye (especially in a three on two against older creatures)**

 **Funny that you mention Greyjoy there, Theon definitely was a source of inspiration for Fret (minus as you said, all the frankly evil shit and so forth). The whole Whimper storyline is a kind of watered down version of Reek if you think about it (he's given a new identity and name and so on and just goes along with it- just ya know. Minus all the torture)**

 **I've also borrowed rather healthily from the ASOIAF books- it's where the name Jon Connington comes from along with the inspiration for Jon's arc (also the spelling of Jon as opposed to John).**

 **Well for one thing, Fret probably doesn't think they'd believe him- because when do they do? Pretty sure Connington isn't anyone's dad. They just look alike- same species and all. That would add an interesting layer I suppose, if Fret and Momchillo were cousins but that's not the case. That flashback isn't necessarily a 'true' flashback. It's a dream that is a collection of flashbacks that happened differently to the way it all played out. So the Skipper that stepped on Fret is the one Constance beat up (because the prior conversation between Constance and Connington was from a different flashback) but he's mixed with the 'important' Skipper who nearly javelinned Fret in this muddle up. It's meant to be a little confusing to emphasize 'lack of memory'. That's how it stands now of course, I probably didn't think too deeply when I wrote it though XD**

 **I'll look into Maggie May.**

 **One-eye: Yeah I saw your self-review so I wasn't worried, glad to hear your thoughts on Grey Claw though XD**

The journey down the river (none knew which one it was anymore) had been a pleasant one for Hawthorn, Sharpfur and Grollo. The three had been content for the first few days to let the current carry them aimlessly along. They had had plenty of food Sharpfur had 'borrowed' from the old hedgehog and the warm spring days had been spent without a care in the world.

Needless to say, they regretted that now. Every last stolen crumb had been eaten, the pleasant warmth became overbearing heat and the cramped spaces of a small boat was not large enough for the three of them. Then the bickering had started and never stopped. Grollo grew progressively grumpier with each passing day- their plan to 'bump into' somebeast friendly was failing rather dramatically and Hawthorn now regretted leaving the cottage in the dead of night.

Funnily enough that was the one point they all agreed on.

"We'd be havin' lunch now." Said Sharpfur, miserably.

"Will you stop talking about food?" Grollo snapped. At the same time his stomach grumbled in discontent. They were all hungy- and their was nothing to chew on except each other's egos.

"What do ye want us te talk about then, eh? How we're lost? How the sun is Hellgates itself? Why ye're covered in pin needles?"

"Or we could talk about how you didn't steal a map. Or how you convinced us to leave. Or how you ate most of the food-"

"Which I stole!" The weasel snapped. "Be grateful I shared it with ye, greedy-rump! And about convinced ye! Ye both wanted te leave- same as me. Don't ye go pinnin' this on me."

"Well when you said 'we're leaving' I thought we might actually go somewhere! You know. That's _not_ the middle of nowhere!" As if to underline the hedgehog's point, the desert around them echoed the last word with avengeance.

"Go on blame the vermin. Typical woodlanders."

"I'm not blaming you coz you're vermin! I'm blaming you because this is your fault!"

"Go boil in puddin' or something! I can't argue with an appetite."

"I wish we _had_ pudding."

"Water that don't taste like salt would be good too." Sharpfur agreed.

Hawthorn, who had been tuning out the conversation so as to maintain a kind of inner peace, was jolted back into reality by the weasel's words.

"The water's salty?"

"Can't ye tell?" He asked dryly.

"We haven't been drinking from the river." Grollo pointed at a pair of water bags that were by now half-empty.

"And ye call me a thief! Ye went and stole that old witch's bags!"

"They were in the boat we didn't steal them." The hedgehog protested.

"Well ye didn't share either." Sharpfur muttered.

Hawthorn, once more ignoring the snapping duo, leaned over the edge of their small raft and dipped her paw in the water. It was refreshingly cool- especially after the beating the sun had given them- and as she found out upon licking her wet paw clean- salty.

"Do you know what this means?" She gasped, already staring off into the horizon.

"That I'm a nicer beast than the both of ye? Thaks for noticin'."

"That we're near the sea!"

"What sea?" Asked Grollo. "And how is that _good_ news? I want to go home, not the beach."

"Think Grollo, think! We're going West, and we're near the sea shore- what lies on the Western Shore?"

The hedgehog furrowed his brow, deep in thought. His specialty was cooking, although he was very good at brooding, and it took what felt like a century for him to find an answer. "Not Redwall."

That much was true, but it wasn't what Hawthorn had been looking for.

"Salamandastron!" The ancient fortress home of the Long Patrol and the Badgerlords. Hawthorn had always wanted to visit the place (although staying was out of the question -it was a volcano after all), and now ironically, she would get her chance. And more importantly, the road from Redwall to Salamandastron was well-known and traversed, and going home would not be difficult if they could just find the place.

All Sharpfur knew, however, was that the fortress was the bane of any vermin band and that a badger lay inside, drinking tea from out of skulls. "We can't go there!"

"Why not?" Asked Grollo. "We might even get an escort home. Ha! I bet Jack's there."

"Yeah, the hare I kidnapped. Ye really think anybeast there's gonna be happy te see _me_?"

There was an awkward silence and then Sharpfur continued, more frantically and with a note of genuine fear. "Besides! There's badgers there an-and- that large patrol thingy. They- they'd eat me alive. Or throw me down their vol- vol- vol-" He'd learned the cursed word, but panic made him forget it.

"Volcano. And I don't think they will." Said Hawthorn. Sharpfur had to tear his paw out of her grip to avoid physical comforting but their was no escaping her words. Not unless he jumped overboard and he didn't know how to swim. "They won't do anything horrible to you because we'll tell them what a lovely creature you are-"

"Yer not funny mouse! I'm bein' _serious_! This is _serious_!"

"So am I! You're our friend Sharpfur, and you've got nowhere else to go. They can't just turn you away at the gates-"

"No, but they can roast me over a fire or boil me in soup or whatever! I don't care how 'edjucated' I am it don't change the fact that I ain't a woodlander."

"We're not monsters." Grollo said, aghast. "We're not going to roast you for nothing- and the only thing you'll boil in is a bathtub. Look. You don't have to stay in Salamandastron, we won't either. Just as long as it takes to get to Redwall-"

"But I don't wanna go to Redwall either!" The weasel snapped. "I wanna go-" He barely managed to stop himself from saying 'home'. His home was long burnt to ashes and Sharpfur belonged nowhere. Not in the mountain, not in the abbey and certainly not in present company!

"So…" Grollo breathed, as awkwardness became palpable around them.

"I mean I _will_ go there, even if I don't want to." The weasel continued. His family was dead. There was no home left. No Honest Bunch. No Greyclaw. He had to make do with what he had and Vulpuz had only given him woodlanders. And when life gave you woodlanders you made… woodland trifle? That didn't sound right… "But don't be surprised if yer ghost murders me."

"Nobeast'll murder you." Hawthorn said, surprised slightly at the relief rushing through her. After the past few weeks she honestly could not imagine a life without Sharpfur's bitterness.

"Ghosts ain't beasts but that's a problem for later. Doesn't change the fact that I ain't goin' to the fire mountain. We ought to turn around."

"But then we might get lost again." Grollo pointed out.

"Does it matter? So long as I don't end up feedin' a badger, I'm happy!"

Grollo opened his mouth to argue- but Hawthorn stopped him. "We can't paddle upriver." She explained gently, watching the rapidly spinning wheels turn inside the weasel's head. All faults aside, Sharpfur was smart. But he was prideful too, and pride always came before the fall. "But if you're scared of a doddery old badger I suppose we could start going upriver on foot."

"But that'll take us back to the cannibals!" Grollo protested, unaware of her scheme.

"Well Sharpfur can fight them off! He's scared of badgers not beast-eaters."

"Badgers _are_ beast eaters!" The weasel snapped. "And I ain't scared of them-"

"But doesn't their height terify you? Why I heard some badgers can grow as tall as mountains, as wide as hills! It makes sense for a little creature like you to be scared of them."

"I'm not that little." The weasel growled, his claws digging into the sides of the boat. But Hawthorn could tell by the twitching eyelid- magnified by the over-sized spectacles he still wore- that her plan to goad him into obedience was working.

"I know that." She said soothingly, as Grollo watched dumbfounded. He was easily the slowest of the three- but it was easier to spot manipulation when it wasn't being used on you. "You're a perfectly normal-sized creature."

Sharpfur looked slightly surprised, but didn't seem to mind the unexpected compliment. "Why! You're even bigger than me!" Now the weasel was smirking. "But next to a badger you and I are like- like flies." The vole shook her head vigorously. "No Grollo, I don't think we can go to Salamandastron. I think Sharpfur's right and we should head back upriver."

"Now hang on a minute." The weasel raised a paw. "A badger can't be that big."

Grollo raised a skeptical eyebrow to go with his question. "Have you ever seen a badger before? They've got fangs the size of swords, claws like spears! We're not even flies! More like… like...like crumbs!"

Sharpfur swallowed and all of their hard work was blown into the wind. "Yer right, Salamandsasstron ain't safe. So directly to Redwall it is."

Perhaps they had taken the 'badgers are big' thing a little too far… Or perhaps Grollo had emphasized the wrong things...

"We were joking!" Hawthorn admitted. "Badgers aren't big at all!"

"Yer just sayin' that now! A badger'd squish me. Now help me turn the boat around!"

"We can't paddle upriver." Grollo reminded him.

"Watch me! Between paddlin' up a waterfall an' meetin' a badger, I'll take the waterfall!" The weasel was panicking now, his fur on end, his eyes wide and darting- as if teriffied a badger might suddenly pop out of the river.

"Sharpfur stop!"

"No!"

"Listen!"

"Yer not the boss of me!"

"Guys? I don't think we're on a river anymore." The hedgehog drew their attention to the shore, and the waves now bobbing them away from the sun- that meant west at this hour.

"Oh no no no no! This is horrible." Sharpfur turned around to try and find the river- but could not spot it with the sun glaring down at him... like a hungry badger. The weasel shrunk. "What're we goin' to do?"

"Well that's a pretty simple question to answer." Grollo stood up- shaking the whole boat but not capsizing it, and hopped off. Plump as he was, water was splashed everywhere, and Sharpfur was left wiping his glasses. The hedgehog was the tallest of the three, but still the water reached up to his chest.

"If ye think I'm gonna do that then yer dumber than ye look! I can't swim remember?"

"I never said you had to jump off of anything." Placing a paw on the side of the boat, the hedgehog guided it closer to the shore. Very little pulling was required and the tide was low so he did not have to walk much.

"So we're on the beach." Sharpfur squeaked, narrowly avoiding the water as he jumped off the boat- which now began to drift away. "Now what?"

Hawthorn chewed her lip. The weasel was not going to like this, but she couldn't see any alternative. "We find Salamandastron."

"No! No! No! No! I already told ye, no!"

"But Sharpfu-"

The weasel pointed in a random direction- he wasn't sure where Salamandastron was exactly. "That mountain exists purely to kill beasts like me! No way in Hellgates am I setting footpaw inside!"

"Alright." Grollo raised a paw to stop Hawthorn from replying. "Here's what we do. We go to Salamandastron-"

"What part of my sen-tense did ye not understand!?"

"We go to Salamandastron and we ask for directions, maybe some supplies too and then we go straight to Redwall. No pit stops. We're not staying anywhere and if we're lucky we won't even have to deal with the Badgerlord." This was in all likelihood a very unlikely outcome. Grownups rarely let children off on their own- let alone in the company of a weasel- and the Long Patrol was definitely going to insist on an escort of some sort. But Sharpfur didn't need to know that yet. Besides, if the walk was long- which in all likelihood it was- then there was every possibility into coaxing the weasel into a small break- a bit of a lie-in, a bite to eat and the like.

"And supposin' the hares were to- whatsit- arst me?"

"Arst?" Asked Hawthorn.

"It means te hold ye for crimes."

"Arrest." The vole corrected. "And what crimes? We didn't do anything wrong."

"I'm a weasel." Sharpfur pointed out. The furs along his back rising and falling at every moment.

"That's not a crime."

"I know it ain't! Bu-but I- I kidnapped you-"

"And saved us from cannibals." Grollo reminded him. The hedgehog set off at a slow pace. "If you hadn't picked the lock I'd have been made into soup."

"And you didn't hurt us either." Hawthorn too, began to walk down the beach. "Besides, weren't you planning to ransom us here anyways?"

Sharpfur scowled, loathing the pair for their cleverness. He glanced half-heartedly in the opposite direction, but knew that alone he stood no chance. He was in a desert, there was no food or fresh water for miles out. He couldn't swim and had never been good at fishing. With a sigh of resignation that was closer to a growl of annoyance, the weasel followed after his companions. The mouse had called him their friend. And he supposed that was true. But Vulpuz… what had he done to deserve friends like these?


	50. A Long Long Patrol Patrol

**A/N: Abrahem, the development in this story may be slow, but it's there and after much bickering these three can call each other friends.**

 **I'm pretty sure Connington didn't really do any talking there- and I think that line was Fleetfoot's (because Jack was one of the captives) I guess I'll look over to make sure it's clearer.**

 **Friendship has been a bit of a theme for a while now-although the beginning stages can hardly be called true friendship. I think the earliest example is Matiya and Fret back in Book I.**

 **I too learn loads on TV Tropes (one of my favourite websites). They will have an argument yes, and Sharpfur's involved but it's not entirely because of Sharpfur !it's also in the next chapter so stay tuned!)**

 **Hmmm, I'm not sure what type of weasel he is (since BJ never really went into weasel subspecies) although he *is* the runt of the litter irrespective of it. He's smaller than the rest of his siblings- and while age gives him some leeway to argue that he's not a runt- the fact is he'd never outgrow any of them.**

 **Hmmm, I tend to think of Silver as slightly shorter (and looking more like Sharpfur) while the others take a bit more after their taller mother. Funnily enough male weasels can be up to twice the size of females but... Guess not here XD That's just the way I imagine it though. You could visualize it differently.**

 **Hmmm, I'll never tell (if only because it seems a certain theory hinges upon this information... I've said too much already...)**

 **Now without further ado, the chapter.**

* * *

There was no time left for regrets, but if there had been even a minute or two, Greyclaw would have regretted ever agreeing to patrol duty. The young hares training under the Junior Corporal's division were already several places ahead of him- not even breaking a sweat as they marched at a constant pace, singing some marching song Grey did not know the name of. The rat was huffing and puffing and practically running, yet still far behind.

"Keep up Berty!" Victoria insisted from far ahead of him.

"Come on Gr-Berty!" Jack doubled back from the back of the hares and hoisted the fat rat above the ground. "We don't leave anybeast behind, wot. But by golly, I wish you were lighter!"

Now patrolling was easy- well of course it was easy, he didn't have to walk. Only stir guiltily as Jack began to fall behind the others, huffing and puffing from the added weight. Not to mention the heat of the sun.

Another patrol passed by, and all hares saluted smartly- except Jack, but rats were not made for saluting with.

"Afraid you won't find anything, wot." Said the hare apparently in charge of this other patrol. "Not a vermin in sight, I'm afraid. Great seasons I can't remember the last time I saw a rat! You might not see much of lunch either at that pace. You've still got a lot of ground to cover, wot, and you know we don't leave any leftovers!"

As soon as they were out of earshot, the Junior Corporal (ignoring both common sense and the protests of all present) doubled their speed.

Jack collapsed onto the sand, and Greyclaw with him. "Bally hot isn't it? I'm starting to think Tibbers was right."

"Berty!" Came Victoria's insistent voice. "Jack! Keep up!"

"I'd like to see her try and carry you, wot." The hare grumbled, pushing himself to his feet and helping the rat to his.

"I think I'd squash her." Greyclaw pointed out, as the two now walked at a normal pace.

"Or she'd throw you into the sea."

"For the last time!" The mouse snapped.

"Not right in the jolly ole cranium, that one." Jack-is-Lucky shook his head.

"Keep up!"

"What does cranium mean?" Asked Greyclaw, as the two did their best at catching up.

* * *

Tibbers' too was walking. In the opposite direction. There was a rocky outcrop slightly south of the legendary mountain, which the shrew often visited. He'd been to the fire mountain before of course, the Guosim liked to winter in the warmth of the desert and his father knew the Skipper and the Badgerlord. He had liked to go exploring, and the set of jagged rocks piled to make a kind of pyramid had been his greatest discovery.

Frequently he would leave the fort, for he knew many ways in and out the mountain and travel to this place.

It was where he liked to think. And where he went to in times of boredom. Or when he was lonely.

Now he was both. Being a shrew was not normally a challenge, especially when you lived with other shrews. But when you were the sole shrew in a volcano full of hares even walking became a challenge.

If he had a muffin for every time he'd almost been stepped on he'd be too wide for the gates. And that was not counting all the times he'd been sat on, or had something thrown on him (usually a cloak of some sort, several times larger than himself). Once the cook had nearly baked him into the pie-purely because he hadn't noticed him in the kitchens (and Tibbers still thought it lucky the hare had heard him). Another time the old washer-hare had gotten to work on his blankets… with him still snoozing inside of them. That had been the most uncomfortable wake-up call he'd ever had…

It wouldn't have been so bad, if only he wasn't always by himself. But Greyclaw, or rather Berty, had Victoria and Jack had the other hares. Victoria frightened him- when he'd been younger she had tried to make him go through her 'training regime' and he'd only agreed because it seemed likely she might stab him if he said otherwise. It had been a nightmare to begin with and had ended with a crab chasing after him.

He wasn't too fond of the other hares- sure they were friendly enough, but they were also frivolous and energetic and forgetful and well… his size did him no favours.

That left the otter twins and that was out of the question. They didn't _just_ pick on him, and indeed picked on everybeast when the opportunity for teasing came. But 'the opportunity' came often when you reached no higher than the knees of most beasts.

Still there were some advantages to being small, and his hideout was one of them. The shrew sniffed at the passageway to make sure it was empty, before sliding into the gap between three jagged rocks. A short slide down a tunnel slick with seawater later, and the shrew lay in a cool chamber- a perfectly square room. Gaps between rocks gave him a window to the sea bellow, where the waves beat the rocks. In time the sea would take his hideout to a watery grave. Hopefully without him inside it.

But not for several seasons anyways- besides, it was only a matter of time before he could no longer squeeze inside to begin with.

He closed his eyes and let the sound of crashing waves lull him to sleep- it was one of the few things he _could_ do really.

* * *

Greyclaw was now several feet behind Jack, who was about a hundred metres behind everybeast else.

"Well I say!" Panted the hare, bending over to pant all the better. "I don't remember ever marching at this rather hurrisome pace. How're you doing over there Gre-Berty, wot?"

The rat gave a 'thumbclaw up' from where he lay upon the ground- having collapsed when the hare did.

Jack-is-Lucky's sensitive ears told him that the Junior Corporal had ordered a halt. Victoria turned, and even from this distance he could tell she was shaking her head in disapproval.

"Come on Berty. Not much further left to go. J-just catch up to the others, wot."

It took them another ten minutes to catch up with the others, yet nobeast seemed to notice them when they collapsed in a heap upon the sand.

"We… should have stayed with Tibbers… maybe had a shot at the kitchens… wot…"

"Really?" Asked Angus.

"And miss out on _this_ discovery?"

Greyclaw looked up to see what everybeast was staring at- a small boat with no sail and no oars. A pair of water bags lay within, but there were no signs of life otherwise.

"This- this could be important, wot!" The Junior Corporal was saying. "Somebeast's lost their boat! Or worse, somebeast had their boat taken from them!"

"Or somebeast got taken from their boat." Victoria placed a paw upon her chin, deep in thought.

"It's just a boat." Said Greyclaw. Everybeast looked at him as if he was stupid. He realized why a moment later.

"We might have to take it back to lunch- er I mean Salamandastron, yes."

"The Badgerlord will want to see this, wot!"

"Weren't there somebeasts from Redwall still missing?"

The muttering grew, and it sounded almost rehearsed. Every voice present (save for Victoria who was still thinking up implications behind an empty boat) was desperate to call it a day and bring the boat back in time for lunch.

The Junior Corporal raised a paw for silence. "I've made my mind up. We'll take the boat with us!"

There was a great cheer and everybeast turned back towards the fire mountain.

"We'll take the boat with us while we finish the patrol!" The fat hare said sternly. "Come on, wot, only half a mile left to go!"

The collective groan was silenced by the look on his face, and everybeast went back to marching at… varied paces.

* * *

"Supposing we arrive in time for lunch." Grollo said, his voice brimming with hope, his paws patting his loudly-complaining belly.

Sharpfur growled, as did his stomach, but he ignored the latter and growled again. "It doesn't matter if it's lunch or not! Ye said we weren't stayin'!"

"We never said anything about staying." Hawthorn agreed. "But it wouldn't hurt to have a bite to eat, would it? And perhaps some… something sweet for the road, eh?"

Sharpfur was sorely tempted by the prospect, but was smart enough to know what was going on. And of course he was not going to just let it happen. "First it's a bite te eat, the next thing ye know ye'll want a nap! Then ye'll want a bath! Then ye'll want a towel! Then ye'll want a map! On an' on an' on until we're old and grey! No! We ain't stayin' and that's final!"

"But Sharpfuuuuur!" Grollo whined, leaning slightly on the weasel to emphasize how hard it was to walk on an empty stomach. "There'll be lots of good things to eat! This is a mountain of hares we're talking about. You know how much hares eat?"

"Ye keep forgettin'." The weasel grunted, pushing Grollo off of him. "That I'm a weasel! Hares kill weasels and weasels kill hares and badgers eat weasels and I don't care what's for lunch so long as it's not me!"

Grollo could not stop himself laughing- now genuinely in need of Sharpfur's support to remain upright. "Wait, wait, wait. Y-you think a badger's going to _eat_ you?"

"It's what badgers do!" Sharpfur gave a valiant effort at pushing off the hedgehog- but failed this time.

"No they don't!" Hawthorn sounded aghast. She'd been raised by a badger and knew firstpaw that they were wise and gentle beasts.

"W-why would they want to eat you anyways?" Grollo pulled himself together. "You're all scrawny and-"

"I ain't small!" Sharpfur snapped.

"Even if you were big." Hawthorn said, her arms crossed across her chest. "Nobeast would eat you. We don't eat other beasts."

"Well ye ain't a badger." Sharpfur pointed out.

"I've lived with one all my life!" The vole protested hotly. "And she never ate _Fret_ , now did she?"

"So I won't get eaten!" Sharpfur threw his paws in the air in mock-celebration. He hastily lowered them again. "There's still a hundred other ways a badger could kill me!"

"But why would they want to kill you?"

"Because I'm vermin!" The weasel shouted- and his voice echoed down the beach.

"So?" Said Grollo.

"And?" Came Hawthorn.

Facepalm, went Sharpfur. "I don't think ye understand how much my kind and yer kind have done te each other." He said, slowly dragging his paw down his face.

"I'm an orphan." Hawthorn pointed out. "All my life all I've ever known was Redwall Abbey. What do you think happened to my parents?"

Sharpfur did not reply. The albino continued regardless.

"I'm pretty sure I understand what you mean. Our kinds have fought for as long as anybeast can remember. That doesn't change the fact that you are a child-"

The little weasel scoffed.

"-With nowhere else to go and if they turn you away then they'll be turning us away too! Where you go, we go too."

The weasel froze, as stiff as a board- as if someone had struck him.

"Oh come on! You act like sentiment is a weakness." Grollo shook his head. "Can't we just be honest with each other?"

"Shut it hedgepig! I'm trying te concentrate." The weasel was sniffing the air, his nose twitching as it caught the familiar scents of salt and Hawthorn and Grollo- but there was something else in the breeze- something vaguely familiar.

"What is it?" Asked Hawthorn, her ears beginning to dart about in search of danger.

"I-it's- it's…" Sharpfur went on all fours, allowing his nose to guide him forwards through the rocks. "It's shrew!" He declared, scrambling into a tunnel. Hawthorn followed suite, but Grollo was left at the mouth- he was too big to squeeze inside.

He did not have to wait long, for soon Hawthorn came out- looking just as confused as he was, followed by Sharpfur, who was dragging a very small, sleeping shrew by the tail.

The weasel clambered back to his feet and spat out the tail. "Is it just me or does he look familiar?" He asked, wrists on hips.

"It's Tibbers!" Grollo said suddenly, recognising a loose green bandage around the young beast's shoulder. "You remember, the one from the feast! He was with us when you, well, when you-"

"Ah that's right! We kidnapped him." Sharpfur sounded rather delighted, eerily so. "And Threeclaw stabbed his shoulder. Now I _remember_!"

Hawthorn tried to shake the shrew awake.

"Five more seasons…" He grumbled, curling back into a ball.

He didn't get five more seasons as a second later Sharpfur had deposited a large amount of water onto him.

"Ack! Ah! Do you mind?" Tibbers shot to his feet- expecting anything from the washerhare, to Angus and Andrew... Trust the twins to ruin his nap… His glare of annoyance turned to confusion when he noticed that the beasts that had actually woken him up were a vole and a hedgehog. "D-do I- I'm sorry why did you just do that?"

"To wake ye up ." Sharpfur replied, placing a paw on the shrew's head and feeling rather delighted that there was somebeast considerably smaller than him now.

Tibbers widened his eyes in wonder- a weasel in abnormally large glasses with abnormally large eyes… yet he'd heard the voice before. Perhaps he was dreaming?

Grollo did an awkward little wave. "I'm Grollo, remember? And this is Hawthorn. From Redwall, remember?" The hedgehog smiled as recognition became apparent in the shrew's eyes.

"I remember! By the seaso- you're _alive_? An-and what're you doing here? And- wait- what are you doing with him?" He pointed at Sharpfur, who batted the paw away. "And- are you wearing spectacles?"

"I am." The weasel replied, crossing his arms over his chest. "Got a problem with that?"

"It's a long story." Hawthorn shook her head. "But the gist of it is we trust Sharpfur now and we were on our way to Salamandastron."

"And then Redwall." Grollo added, sounding very excited. "We fought cannibals and- and, well... mostly each other."

"We had to deal with cannibals too!" There was a dangerous level of excitement in his voice. "Well, we got caught by them but then the Skipper freed us. Only we thought he was a cannibal so... Yeah I don't think he was too happy about that." The shrew motioned for them to follow and then began scampering through the rocky beach. "I'm staying at Salamandastron too and Jack's here as well and Gr-"

" _We_ ain't stayin'." Sharpfur was quick to point out. "We're just goin' to ask for directions and go on our way." He shot his companions a glare. "Or at least, that's what ye said."

Both were quick to reassure him (very vaguely) that that was what they intended to do.

"Er… right…" Tibbers began feeling a little out of place again, as if he were intruding on something personal. Awkwardly be scratched at his chest fur. "Well it's soon time for lunch. And the others should be back from patrol duty soon. So I guess you had better follow me."

* * *

"Remember, we're just askin' for directions." Sharpfur reminded them for the eighth time as Tibbers tried valiantly to get somebeast's attention with numerous knocks and 'um hello's. Unfortunately, the gatekeeper must have been dismissed for lunch.

"Just directions." Sharpfur repeated, hiding his inner-panic rather impressively.

"Hello." Tibbers pawed at the gate. "Anybeast there?"

"One second." Came a great booming voice, and Tibbers only just managed to get out of the way of the vast doors. A humongous shadow fell upon the unlikely quartet- the shadow of a badger.

It was a good thing he hadn't had anything to drink in a while- Sharpfur probably would have pissed himself. It was just as Hawthorn and Grollo had warned him, vast gnashing teeth as big as swords, claws as long as spears, fur as white as milk and as black as night. The vermin bogeyman. The monster under every weasel's bed, cot or hammock.

For his part Umber was surprised. He'd been expecting the patrol to return, hadn't known Tibbers was outdoors and had most certainly not expected the missing abbey children… and a… bespectacled weasel? "Well hello."

Sharpfur, ever the expert on self-preservation, shrieked, spun on his heel and darted away as fast as his feetpaw could carry him. He probably would have gotten a fair distance away too, had there not been a rock hidden amongst the sand. The weasel tripped, rolled forwards a short distance and ended up on his front.

Before another attempt at escape could be made he was picked up in surprisingly gentle paws.

"I admit, that was my first instinct." The badger's voice shook with strength- yet there was a softness to it. "I am glad though. My shriek is rather unbecoming of a Badgerlord- it would have done nobeast a favour to hear it."

He placed the softly-shaking Sharpfur back on his feet, now inside the great fort. Hawthorn, Grollo and Tibbers followed them inside and the young weasel watched in horror as the badger shut the gates behind them.

"Sorry about the timing sir." Tibbers' paw instinctively went to his chest fur. "I know I wasn't meant to be out and all-"

The badger waved away the apology with a paw-swipe that sent a small gust of wind at the shrew. Addressing the newcomers he folded his paws behind his back. "I take it you're from Redwall?"

"Yes." Hawthorn managed to reply- Grollo was too busy staring at the vast figure before him.

Umber nodded. "Yes, I heard about what happened. Dreadful thing. Still, I have never had any doubt that you would all find your way home." He placed a paw several times larger than Tibbers on his chest. "Allow me to introduce myself. I am Umber, at present Badgerlord of Salamandastron, although I prefer to think of my job as 'smile, but look intimidating from a distance'".

"Ye look in-timitating from up close too." Sharpfur piped up. He regretted it a moment later when the badger turned to him expectantly. He seemed to stare for an uncomfortably long time and Sharpfur soon broke into a cold sweat- the shaking returning with avengeance. "I-I- I didn't do nothin'!" The weasel said, slowly backing away- his eyes desperately searching for escape routes.

"Well, I was waiting for a name. But I suppose a proclamation of innocence is good too."

"It's Sharpfur." The weasel squeaked, before clearing his throat and repeating in a more dignified tone. "Sharpfur."

"I'm Hawthorn and this is Grollo." The vole introduced, while the hedgehog gave a tiny wave.

Umber nodded in satisfaction. "Now that we're all acquainted I think it would be best if I sent word to the abbey of your arrival. They will want to know. Transport can be arranged and you can expect to be home before Summer at the latest. Until then you have my full hospitality."

Sharpfur once again piped up. "We're f-flattered mister Badgerlord sir, b-but we were kind of hoping- um planning te not stay. Er- leave immediately." The weasel was scooped effortlessly off the ground, along with Hawthorn and Tibbers. Grollo stood on tip-paw to reach the tip of the badger's outstretched paw and was promptly hoisted onto his shoulders.

"I understand that you must be eager to leave, but I simply cannot in good conscience, allow you to go on your own. Roads are perilous places. Besides, I am sure you will have changed your mind after lunch.

Sharpfur remained silent, but Grollo and Hawthorn both knew that the second Umber left this would become the badger in the room.

* * *

A short while later the four found themselves seated upon an immense desk. With a quill that must have been plucked from an eagle, and a pot of ink that dwarfed Tibbers (like most things), the badger got to work.

"What is the name of your abbot?" He inquired politely, his quill scratching against thick parchment.

"Martin." Hawthorn replied, for Sharpfur was too busy containing consecutive panic attacks, Grollo was admiring a suit of armour and Tibbers was admiring… well… the fact that everything was bigger than him!

"And what does he look like?"

"He's small. And old. Gray-furred. Bespectacled." Hawthorn frowned- in search of something that really stood out about the old abbot.

"Used to be Recorder?"

"Yes."

The badger smiled. "I know the one. Now, Sharpfur. I understand that you were part of the band of kidnappers behind this?"

The weasel's eyes widened in horror. How had he known that?

"It may have started out like that sir." Grollo interjected. "But Sharpfur's a good fellow. He- well we would likely not be alive if not for him."

The badger leaned back in his chair, and smirked slightly. "Now this is a story I very much would like to hear." Umber glanced out the window. "Ah, Tibbers, the Junior Corporal has returned. I'm afraid I'm going to have to deprive you of storytime. Please inform the Corporal that I have need of him. And I think it would be best if you set the stage for our new arrivals here."

Tibbers glanced quickly at Sharpfur, and remembered Greyclaw… and how he and Jack had convinced the rat that the weasel was dead… unintentionally of course… and it would be best if he warned Victoria too… "Yeah. Right. I'll… I'll go do that then." The shrew walked to the edge of the desk and clambered off. He then stared up at the immense door and the knob on it that most hares struggled to reach. "Er- could you open the door?"


	51. The Not-So-Happy Reunion

**A/N:** **Dear Reviewers, here it comes, the long-awaited reunion of Sharpfur and Greyclaw.**

 **Sebias, I'd imagine some woodlanders would also be a bit scared of bagers- we humans don't have this issue but imagine living around something big enough to fit you in it's paw. Glad you like Umber. Also somehow I feel like your review is foreshadowing your own story…**

 **Abrahem, I must warn you that you are entering the very mind-boggling realm of Redwall proportions. Tread carefully. I don't really imagine Marik as twice Slit's height so that particular 'males are twice as large' rule does not really apply. I never specified (beyond Silver being a runt) who was taller of the two so I suppose you could 'visualize' it any way you like. That's the beauty behind the written medium. The imagination**

 **I guess yeah, I can fit that in (it is rather fitting I suppose and is something Snakeskin would say. Good joke)**

 **I didn't do much to imply that Hawthorn was an orphan- beyond I suppose never mentioning her parents. I'm glad this 'reveal' puts it all into perspective for you.**

 **Mouse Guard I know in passing (and always think of as taking place in an Alternate Universe of Redwall) and Mice Templar is different. It's more of a mythological parody with mice at the front that takes itself seriously than a medieval epic. They're both pretty neat but I admit I don't know too much about them.**

 **Regarding the Redwall question- the Recorder telling the story is more of a narrative framing device than anything else. We, the reader, are reading about what happened while the Recorder would be telling a different account of the story- because the Bellmaker, for example, could not be told in its entirety in one afternoon. So they're not lying, it's just a way to set the scene for the story. Although it can be a bit confusing here…**

It was strange, to now have to recount their tale of woe. But Hawthorn and Grollo did it well. If with a little too much honesty- had Sharpfur been telling the story he'd have wasted less time with the hedgepig and more fighting the cannibals- but it was probably for the best that his story came from the mouths of honest beasts.

At first it had been a lot of ers and ums- particularly where Fret was concerned, but by the time they got to escaping the old lady they were stumbling over one another in their hurry to tell it all.

"And then we found Tibbers." Grollo concluded.

"Sharpfur did." Hawthorn added. "And then yes, the rest is history."

Umber was gently twirling the quill between two massive claws. From what he could tell every word of what he'd heard was true- not that he'd expected otherwise. The weasel had not spoken though, and the badger had watched as his eyes- magnified so much that they were rather hard to miss- darted around the room. The poor boy was terrified. That much was obvious. Yet there was much that was not so. A strange kind of curiousity filled the badger, one he had not felt since he'd been a child. Yet now was not the time to come prying for answers.

"Are you hungry?" He asked abruptly.

Grollo nodded vigorously. "Oh yes. Very much so, sir."

"It's a good thing it's lunchtime then. I will have a hare prepare some chambers for you. Please don't be offended but I'm glad that you do not need as much space as me." He offered them his paws. "Being large can be tedious work." Hawthorn clambered on and Grollo was once more swung onto the badger's shoulders. "I will have a runner deliver news of your arrival to Redwall. And when he leaves for Mossflower I have no doubt the Skipper will be happy to take you with him."

Sharpfur said something under his breath.

"I didn't quite catch that." The badger offered his paw, but Sharpfur did not budge.

"We only came here for directions." The weasel grumbled. "That's what they said anyways." He pointed his muzzle at the pair of companions that had lead him here. Tricked him into coming...

"And I have no doubt that that was their intention." Even for a weasel Sharpfur was light, and the badger had no difficulty lifting him off the desk. "I on the other paw promised no such thing. I do promise however, that as my guests you shall want for nothing." Umber got to his feet now- as if not weighed down by anybeast. "You also have nothing to fear." He added but Sharpfur kept his muzzle firmly shut.

* * *

Greyclaw was glad of one thing and that was that lunch was not over yet. The mystery of the mysterious boat was all anybeast could talk about, but the rat was too tired to talk. Had the patrol been any longer he'd probably be too tired to eat too. Luckily, or unluckily if you were a pie, he still had an appetite. As did Jack- who's cheeks now bulged with lettuce leaves.

"I reckon it was pirates." Angus was saying. Andrew, of course, agreed with him.

"Aye pirates. Nasty one-eyed vermin what like to chew on fat mice."

"Don't worry Berty."

"We won't let the rat's get to you!"

Greyclaw was at first confused by the wink in his direction, until he remembered he was supposed to be a mouse. Well... He _was_ a mouse.

Victoria did not take kindly to Berty being made fun of, mostly because- having been similarly traumatized by vermin- she knew how painful it must have been. "My mum and dad weren't fat and pirates chewed on them all the same. Start making jokes that are funny or don't make them at all."

Neither twin could bring themselves to look at anything other than their identical feetpaw.

A few spaces down the Junior Corporal was trying his hardest to act like his patrol had been a) important and b) entertaining.

"Wasn't it just rivetting? And quite an important discovery too, with that boat wot. Very important. I'm sure the Badgerlord will want to hear about it! But I'd have to report to the Senior Corporal first, and then to the more senior one after that- but it was such a spliffing good patrol, wot! With any luck we'll be doing this all week!"

Jack and Greyclaw shared a look of absolute horror, which was interrupted by the arrival of Tibbers. The shrew was panting, as if he'd been running- and he had. The importance of his task, setting the stage for Sharpfur's arrival and no doubt the reveal that Berty was a made up name and that he and Jack had been lying to everybeast since they were found- even if Greyclaw was, ironically, a mouse, had only truly begun to weigh on him recently. The Skipper had to know, and everybeast else- but first he wanted to break the news to his fellow conspirators.

Unfortunately, the ever-oblivious Junior Corporal, chose that moment to sit between Greyclaw and Jack-is-Lucky, and more specifically, on him.

"I know it seems like a waste of time and energy, but patrol duty is very, very important, wot! If we leave a tad bit earlier we won't risk missing lunch and can use our normal marching pace-"

Jack swallowed the lettuce. "All brilliant ideas mate, but you're squashing Tibbers."

The Corporal abruptly stood up, and helped the flattened shrew back up. "Sincerest apologies ole chap. Never meant to do it, wot. But you are small and whatnot. Try to stand out a bit more-"

The shrew shook life back into his form and waved away the apology- he heard it twice a day anyways. "I-I-, Jack there's something I need to tell you-"

"Out with it, wot!" The hare insisted loudly, so that all eyes were on the shrew.

It never did manage to arrive, as at that moment the doors opened and in walked the Badgerlord himself.

Every hare in the hall hastily straightened up, swallowed their half-chewed food and fixed their full attention on the badger.

Jack's eyes went impossibly wide at the sight of the other beasts, whom he recognised instantly. He elbowed Tibbers (rather harder than necessary).

"I know." The shrew whined, tugging at his ears. Their great lie was going to come crashing down any minute now.

* * *

"I'm sorry for interrupting." Umber said smoothly, and raised a paw to silence the flurry of 'no problems sah' that bombarded him. "I just thought it polite to inform you of the arrival of our young friends here."

The crowd of hares and the otter crew brought their gaze upon the trio. Sharpfur would have ran but Grollo had him by the shoulder. For his part the hedgehog was waving, and although both woodlanders were slightly flustered by the sheer number of beasts present, they were beaming.

Sharpfur's eyes darted from one grizzled hare to another, until they fell upon a grizzled otter. Some hares were tall, some short, some thin, some fat, the same for the otters although there were far fewer fat otters. Then his eyes landed upon a fat mouse- no rat… a fat rat that looked remarkably like Grey Claw. The weasel screwed his eyes shut and opened them again, sure enough the rat was still there. He removed his spectacles, sure enough the rat was still there. He put them back on. And the rat's mouth hung open. There was no mistaking the uneven buckteeth.

Ignoring the instincts screaming at him to run for his life, the fact that the Badgerlord was still talking and any sense of dignity Sharpfur shouted in joy.

"GREEYCLAAAAW!" With speed not even the most senior of hares could have matched, the weasel darted through the mess hall. Greyclaw did not move. He was frozen in shock and pale with fright. If he was seeing a ghost then it was a very strange ghost, for Sharpfur had always said that all ghosts looked like they were covered in flour. Yet Sharpfur would have to be a ghost because Sharpfur was dead…

Yet Sharpfur was here, and slammed into him hard enough to knock him off his feetpaws. The little weasel's arms were firmly glued round the befuddled rat's throat.

"Ye great dumb rat I missed ye! I missed ye! Yer alive! Hellgates! Greyclaw yer alive!"

The rat's eyes widened. Perhaps he was dreaming, something as happy as this could only happen in a dream. Sharpfur was, he was here! In the hare mountain! With spectacles and hugging him and-

"I missed you too!" Greyclaw was not a strong beast by any account, but sheer joy threatened to squish the weasel, and probably would have, had Sharpfur not been used to extricating himself from his brother.

He backed away slightly, so that he could breathe, and so that they could admire each other better. The rat looked no different- perhaps slightly wider, maybe a quarter-of-an-inch taller, but the fur was the same grey, his buckteeth mishappen as they always had been and his tail the same little worm Sharpfur had once used as bait.

The rat could recognise him of course- after all he'd followed Sharpfur everywhere for the better part of his life- but there was something different about the weasel. Perhaps it was the spectacles? Or the fact that he looked cleaner? Did he look cleaner? Well perhaps he smelled better… but no. Had he grown taller? Unlikely…

"Berty?" Victoria's teeth were gritted so tightly it looked like she might snap them off. Her perfectly clipped voice brought the rat back into reality. "Do you _know_ this beast?"

"Berty?" Sharpfur sniffed curiously. "What kind of a stupid name is that? An' course he knows me." Sharpfur straightened himself to his full (unimpressive) height and put his wrists on his hips. "We're brothers!"

A slice of potatoe slipped right off Angus's fork and hit the table. Nobeast seemed to notice.

"What!?" Victoria's eyes were somehow both wide with shock and narrowed in rage- she looked more terrifying than the rat had ever seen her.

Greyclaw raised his paws defensively. "W-wait let me explain-"

"Explain what?" Sharpfur demanded, disliking this mouse's attitude. Nobeast frightened Greyclaw. Well, everybeast _liked_ to do it, and he did it too- but it was inappropriate now!

The angry mouse pointed a spoon at the rat. "You said you were kidnapped! You said these beasts tortured you! You said you were a _mouse_!"

"A what?" Sharpfur was torn between confusion and laughing at them all; for you had to be a very special type of idiot to think Greyclaw a mouse.

Ignoring the weasel Victoria stomped towards the rat, who now hastily tried to scramble backwards.

"I-I- I-"

"I CAN EXPLAIN!" Jack-is-Lucky could not stand the tension any longer (nor did he want to know where Victoria had meant to put the spoon)- every eye in the hall was upon them, and now on him. "I -er- well you see when we got kidnapped er- well, wot wot. Er- Tibbers can explain!" He hoisted the shrew onto the table and now all eyes were on him.

"Um..." He squeaked, shrinking slightly.

"Berty's a rat?" The Skipper sounded stunned.

"He's been a rat this whole time!?" Angus and Andrew shouted in unison- shocked was an understatement.

"I-it's really all the Skipper's fault!" Jack said, pulling both Greyclaw and Tibbers closer to himself- if they were going down, he was going down with them. Though hopefully nobeast would go down…

The otter in question rose to his feet, cold fury evident on his face. "My fault?" He repeated quietly.

"And the Badgerlord knew!" Shouted Tibbers, and with a gasp worthy of a soap-opera, all eyes turned to Umber.

The badger was rather better at handling the attention and raised his paws. "Bartholomew may have been raised by vermin- and thus under the impression that he was one of them, but I personally am convinced that he is a mouse."

Sharpfur could not stop himself from laughing at the top of his voice. Soon the weasel was banging a paw on the table and kicking his legs in the air. Greyclaw- fat, slow, stupid Greyclaw had fooled the hares of the fire-mountain into thinking him a mouse. Perhaps he was far more cunning than Sharpfur gave him credit for. Or perhaps woodlanders were just stupid like that. It was hilarious all the same.

"I happen to have known his supposed parents." The Badgerlord went on- ignoring the weasel. "And the resemblance is uncanny. Grollo, Hawthorn, I am sure you remember a mouse at Redwall that went by Constance? Now look at our friend, the supposed rat, and tell me is this familiarity just my old age talking?"

Sharpfur had stopped laughing and was now scowling. "It must be, coz Greyclaw's a rat."

But nobeast payed him any mind- their eyes alternating between the mouserat and the Redwallers.

"Well…" Said Grollo after a long while. Sharpfur glared at him. How stupid could they get? Greyclaw was a _rat_! "I mean there is some resemblance."

"We didn't spend much time with Constance." Hawthorn added. "She always had to deal with Fret. B-but yes. There- there's something similar."

"Now this is just turnin' into a bad joke!" Snapped Sharpfur, growing tired of woodlander stupidity. He pointed at nobeast in particular and continued. "Let's set somethin' straight, coz all yer brains are wonky. Grey Claw is a rat. My ma found him by the river an' he's been my brother ever since. End. Of. Story."

"But you wouldn't know who threw him in the river." The Skipper pointed out.

"Some dumb rat who didn't want him!" The weasel snapped again. Why did it matter who had thrown him in?

"Many seasons ago Constance was a proud mother of three, and Rowland, a father." The Skipper began, for the benefit of all present.

"Facts-inatin'." The weasel drawled, his scowl deepening.

"Until one night a warlord by the name of Mad-Eye Marik came to Mossflower." The otter's paw clenched tightly around a spoon- bending it hopelessly out of shape. "We had fought him before and beat him before. But this time we didn't see him coming. Rowland was killed and the babes slaughtered- we had everybeast accounted for- dead or wounded- except one." The Skipper pointed a claw at Greyclaw. "That one."

"Yer just bein' riddick- riddick- riddick-"

"Ridiculous." Hawthorn provided.

"Riddick- you-less! Greyclaw probably wasn't even born yet!"

"Skip was two seasons and a half." Grunted the otter, a frown of dislike clear on his muzzle. "How old was he when you found him?"

Sharpfur hissed, as if he'd been struck. Greyclaw was no mouse! "About that-"

"And did you or did you not find him the morning after an empty moon?"

"So ye lost a mouse on the same day!" Sharpfur snapped. "That mouse ain't here now an' the only mouse I see here's an angry female! Tell 'em Grey. They're idjits an' actin' stupid an' an'- gah! Ye ain't a mouse!"

"Well… I wouldn't really know…" The rat swallowed. "I mean- I don't remember anybeast before your ma found me. But… but Blizzard and Red and Heart- they always said-"

"They were bein' stupid! Yer a rat Grey an' this ain't funny anymore."

"Does it really make a difference?" Grollo piped up, coming behind Sharpfur and placing a paw on the weasel's shoulder. "I mean, what's the real difference?"

"There are quite a few." Victoria snapped, her arms tightly crossed over her chest. "Mice don't lie! Mice don't slaughter the innocent! They don't pillage! They don't kidnap! And they most certainly do not pretend to be somebeast they're not!"

Greyclaw swallowed audibly. "I- I was scared! You're scary! All of you! An-and you said you hated rats and-"

"Oh you hear that Andrew, we're scary!"

"Yes, properly terrifying!"

"Well when you go around bragging about every vermin you've ever slain-" Jack started hotly, but was interrupted by the Badgerlord.

"I understand that there have been some, ah, miscommunications. But irrespective of what he was called, Berty here has always been himself. For better or for worse. Now, as I was saying- our friends from Redwall owe their lives to Sharpfur here, as such he is my personal guest. If I come to hear of any… incidents… I will not be pleased." His eyes slowly passed from Victoria, to the Skipper and his holt, to a few of the hares. "Is that understood?" There was a murmur of agreement and the the badger smiled slightly. He had found in his many years of service that smiling even a little helped relieve tension, and the room was very tense indeed. "Now, can we please go back to the very important task at hand- and by that I mean eating. I am sure our guests are very hungry."

But nobeast seemed interested in eating anymore- not even the excellent lunch could keep them away from wanting more. This was gossip at it's best! A weasel saving woodlanders? A rat that was really a mouse? Soon the hall was filled with conversation- all either on the subject of Redwall's missing children or Greyclaw's parentage.

"I was there, wot!" One gnarled old hare was saying. "That boy's the very spitting image of Rowland! Only misses the bent tail- ah poor Rowland, dreadful fate, dreadful, don'tcha know?"

Indeed all tables were filled with conversation, save and except the one reserved for the youngsters.

Sharpfur sat besides Greyclaw and Grollo, the latter of whom was trying his hardest, it seemed, to get a stomach ache.

Hawthorn was more delicate, and more aware of the tension still present. Sharpfur was a brooding cesspit of concealed emotion and didn't so much as sniff at the food.

Jack-is-Lucky coughed awkwardly. "So erm- Hawthorn is it m'gal? How did you get here, wot? Must have been quite an adventure!"

"Well, I- I suppose it was! We were still on the boat you see- the raft we were getting away with, remember? Well we got a little lost at first, tried to follow the river home. But it started getting really cold so we headed off into the woods-"

"And then we found this camp." Grollo added after an immense swallow. "Everything seemed alright at first but their was the soup cooking over a fire and their were bones inside."

"Vermin was it?" Victoria asked, stabbing an innocent potato with unnecessary force.

"Cannibals." Grollo said delicately, eyeing Sharpfur nervously.

"We had cannibals too!" Jack cried excitedly. "Didn't we Tibbers? They wanted to cook us, wot but-" He stopped abruptly at the sight of Victoria's face. "But they- well, a bally awful lot-"

"But er- we escaped." Grollo continued awkwardly. "Sharpfur picked the lock and then we-" It was his turn to stop abruptly, the memory of what they had done… the cries of pain, the muffled shouting… all the blood…

"We killed 'em." Sharpfur said with severe finality. The weasel picked up a fork and stabbed an unfortunate leek, but made no effort to consume it.

"Yes." Hawthorn cleared her throat. "That's... What happened…"

"I assume you did the killing." Victoria was addressing Sharpfur now.

The weasel did not like the mouse. Her tone of voice, her scowling face. "It was a cola-bor-ative effort."

"Still, it makes sense for you to do the killing. Did _you_ ever kill anybeast 'Berty'?"

The rat looked horrified. "N-no."

She did not seem to believe him. "I haven't had to kill anybeast." She frowned and Sharpfur saw her nose twitch in his direction. "Not yet anyways."

"Keep yer death threats te yerself, mouse. Ye ain't scaring nobeast." Greyclaw was terrified, but that was besides the point. He next turned to Grollo. "This is why I didn't want te come here."

"You're welcome to leave. And take your rat with you." The mouse snapped, glaring at both.

"He's not a rat." Jack corrected sternly.

"Well he lied like one." The twins said in unison.

"Leave him be." Tibbers squeaked rather unimpressively. "Me and Jack lied too!"

The hare in question nodded vigorously. "And it doesn't matter if he's a rat or a mouse-"

"It does!" Snapped Sharpfur, digging his claws into the table. "It very much does!" He turned to Grollo. "Ye can tell me when we're leavin'." Pushing himself off the bench the little weasel stomped towards the exit. Every eye in the hall followed him to the door, until he could bear it no more. "WHAT'RE YE ALL LOOKING AT!?"

The eyes were averted and the door slammed shut behind him. If it wasn't built for a badger it would have fallen off it's hinges.

Grollo swallowed uncomfortably. He and Hawthorn shared a look, and the hedgehog made to follow.


	52. Banana Filling

**A/N: Abrahem, that is kind of a Redwall thing- but it's also something I tend to do... Everywhere. I mean, I don't try and sidetrack the main character or anything, but I suppose the way I write is geared more towards ensembles. I don't really mind though. There's interesting times to be had when no one character is more important than the others.**

 **The Sharpfur and Greyclaw reunion has replayed quite a lot in my mind. At one point I remember SharoSha was going to get arrested by the patrol (coz the boat capsized and Hawthorn and Grollo nearly drowned and everyone jumped to the wrong conclusion). Then he was going to escape them in Salamandastron and run into Greyclaw who stayed behind with Tibbers. That was one idea I was really attached to but... Plans changed. I may still write it in a drabble obviously, but not soon or anything (alternatively I like to think that this is how Sharpfur would remember the event).**

 **I like the soap opera idea- obviously I have no idea what to do with it or where to put it or anything but I like it (although that feels more in-line with some of my other works...)**

 **For the record Greyclaw hitting the dummy wasn't exactly anger- I kind of imagine he got nervous at the way they were all looking at him so he hit the dummy to satisfy them. For the record it'll be more of a one-sided argument than a full on mortal combat brawl but it should be fun regardless.**

 **Haven't heard of copywork before but I'll look into it (although I must warn you- the premise sounds a little illegal- ever heard of copyright? XD)**

 **In good time- I'll try and do it today but not sure if I can cram it in. (Same goes for goblin slayer Lord Demon- also you should be fine, Mathias looses all his fights- although that's probably why I like him)**

 **I think the cover photo is a photo he got from the web- but Berserker88 is a man of many talents (who has a lot of surprises, sleeves must be very deep) so it's possible that he has artistic talents- he has a devianart I think, Berserker88 or Berserker88x- although I think most of the art there is of his characters rather than his work.**

 **The reunion went nicely, that is very nice to hear. I was kind of going for a bit of a rollercoaster effect- Sharpfur's scared, then he's happy, then he's angry. When we return to Salamandastron we should pick up where we left off. Most of you kind of get why he's mad already but there's more to it and I don't want to spoil the surprise.**

 **So, now we're back North with the titular (if not main) character.**

It was painfully obvious to anybeast present that Snakeskin did not know how to cook. Fret had no idea what was even inside the so-called soup, but he was willing to bet his life that snake was involved in some way. The stoat was stirring viciously, humming something Fret had never heard before- Momchillo hadn't either and Snakeskin most likely didn't know what the words were to begin with.

The ferret wasn't sure how much he liked the stoat. On one paw, Snakeskin was providing food (seasons-old bread, half-frozen and peppered with ice), shelter (walls of ice that were either slick from melting, or cold enough to set your teeth chattering) and bedding (uncomfortable, itchy rugs made out of some kind of fur). On the other, he was, well, himself.

"'Ere ye go! Mouse gut an' ferret brains stew! It'll put some 'air on yer ches', eh? Pass me them bowls, will ye?"

Momchillo, who was nearest to the bowls, handed them to him. By now the pair knew not to take any of what he said seriously. The fact that they knew that the soup didn't contain either ingredients, however, did not make it any more appealing. It only raised the question- what was _actually_ inside?

The 'soup' was spooned into three wooden bowls, and Fret felt himself growing slightly green. It was the colour of pale, white snow, with the sloppy, slimy texture of badly-made mash potatoe- with tiny little black things inside. It was unappetizing to say the least- and Fret could only imagine what Friar Gord would have had to say about it. The only good thing _he_ could say about it was that it made his own, abysmal cooking look 'delectable'.

"Mos' delec'able meal in the 'ole wide world!" Snakeskin insisted, passing them a bowl each. The stoat threw back his own bowl and emptied it in what looked like one swallow. Licking his chops, the stoat helped himself to another bowl-ful, and emptied it just as quickly. It was only after he'd finished his fourth serving, that he noticed them.

Fret was raising a small bit of 'soup' with his claw, and watching the way it dribbled off. Momchillo was gently sniffing at it, as if to search for poison.

"I 'ope I don' have te tell ye te open wide." The stoat said, mildly offended.

"I-er it's just h-hot." Fret replied.

"Ye got a speech impedimen' or somethin'? I ain' angry- jus' though' after all the work an' effor' I put inter cookin' lunch fur ye both-"

Momchillo stirred guiltily, unaware that pulling on the guilt strings was exactly what Snakeskin had been going for. Without another sniff he raised the bowl and swallowed a mouthful."I-It's not so bad."

"Course it ain'! It's perfec'ly good! Sure beats ole bread an' barley, eh? 'Ere Fret, le' me show ye 'ow it's done." The serving spoon- too large for the bowls, but not Fret's mouth, plunged forwards and made Fret's cheeks puff with Snakeskin's idea of cooking.

The ferret had to disagree with the bread and barley statement. The 'soup' was an odd combination of too sweet and too bitter. How that was even possible was beyond him. But he was hungry, and squashing down any thoughts of what might be inside, and because Snakeskin was likely to forcefeed him some more, swallowed all but the spoon.

"I call it 'Ellgates soup." Snakeskin said proudly, re-filling their bowls to the brim (they hadn't asked him to, of course, but he did it nonetheless). "Ye see there's this myth what says these caverns are 'Ellgates. Ice never melts coz it's jus' frozen souls, see. Now eat that up- plen'y more fur when yer done. Then we can continue our lil' trip."

After three bowls of the nauseating substance, both mouse and ferret refused to hand him their bowls. Snakeskin finished up the rest of the soup and then stood up.

The trip so far had been rather uneventful. Snakeskin did pretty much all of the talking- half of it to himself. His companions only spoke when spoken to and rarely initiated conversation. Fret rather liked it this way. The less they talked, the less he had to listen to Momchillo and the less likely it was that the secret of his book- pressed stiffly under his fur- was revealed. The only downside was that it left him alone to all his glum thoughts. _Like the way everybeast would look at him when he returned... If he returned..._

"What's abbeyfood like then?" Snakeskin asked abruptly. In truth, the stoat had gotten weary of his companion's silence.

"Er-" Started Fret, itching at the fur on his chest.

"Well." Momchillo began, just as awkwardly.

"Better?"

"Yes." Fret admitted. _Abbot Martin would be happy. He'd finally have somebeast to scold and scowl at and bully and give all the hard questions to._

"A little bit." Momchillo agreed, the grin on his face rather sheepish. _Momchillo would be happy too. Nothing would delight the mouse more than going on and on about how he'd seen Martin the Warrior. Nobeast would care about the snake, beyond, perhaps, regretting that it couldn't finish it's meal. And of course Momchillo would never leave out the part where Fret had scratched him and drawn blood._

Both found themselves reeled in closer to the stoat. An arm around Fret's shoulder, a paw on Momchillo's head- threatening to flick his ear as he often did. "'Ow so?"

"I-it's- just- it just is! I mean, not everything." Momchillo winced as Snakeskin flicked his ear. "I mean, everybeast has their preferences. I'm sure- er- others love your er- Hellgates soup. We're just not used to it."

"Yeah." Fret agreed half-heartedly, not really paying attention. _Bella wouldn't even pretend to be happy to see him. She probably wouldn't let him past the gates, and if she did it would only be to throw him out again. Or do it publicly. Or worse..._

"So what's yet favourite food?" Snakeskin insisted through gritted teeth. This was a conversation starter, not an interrogation. Yet both children seemed determined to stear clear of it.

"Well... I don't really have a favourite. I'd settle for anything from home at this point."

"Same." Agreed Fret, sounding even more spaced out and glum than before _. Constance wouldn't look at him. All his life he'd heard her and seen her go on about how he was a goodbeast, even if he was a ferret. He'd parroted her beliefs for as long as he could but... With his Nuncle dead at his paws, not even Constance could turn a blind eye to what he'd become._

Snakeskin felt his eye twitching. "I 'appen te be partial te my soup. Don' like the bread much but 'ey, it's better than nothin'!"

"Mmmhmmm." Came the ferret's distant agreement. _Or perhaps what he'd always been. Or what he'd been made into. None of this would have happened if the stupid hare hadn't started juggling. And he had never asked anybeast to follow him. And his Nuncle. Well... Connington was a tough mouse. He could swim. He'd only really done it to save Clogg. Murder had never been a motive. Somehow he doubted anybeast would believe that._

A sharp pain on his ear reeled Fret back into reality. Snakeskin, who had caused the pain with a flick of his claws, was smirking.

"What was that for?" Fret snapped hotly.

"Ye were daydreamin'. I fel' obliged te wake ye up. Now that yer 'ere, tell us. If ye could 'ave one thin' te eat- anythin'- what would it be?"

"Anything that's not yours." Was Fret's bitter reply. His ear was still sore from the flick. His smart mouth earned him another. "Stop it!" The ferret growled.

"He liked nutfarl a lot." Momchillo butted in.

"What's tha'?"

"It's like a roll but filled with crushed nuts instead of fruit." The mouse explained, wishing he had had nutfarl for breakfast.

"And everybeast liked it." Fret snapped defensively. "Not just me."

"And there's nothing wrong with liking it." Momchillo raised his paws in a gesture of innocence. Fret only growled.

"I know that!" The ferret snapped again.

Momchillo felt burning indignation roaring from his chest like dragon's breath. He'd only spoken up to help Fret out, but the ferret was stupid and silly and- nearly died a few days ago. Containing the inner anger was not easy, but Momchillo managed to do it. If only because an angry Fret was easier to deal with than a sad Fret.

"What about ye? Anythin' te eat."

"You're making me hungry." Said Momchillo, shaking his head. "I'd say strawberry."

"What's that?"

Momchillo opened and closed his mouth, and barely suppressed a laugh. "You? You-" Then again, the lands of ice and snow did not seem like the best place for strawberries to grow. "It's a fruit. A big, red, heart-shaped-"

"It's not heart-shaped." Fret added scathingly. "It's normally like a-a-" His paws flailed about trying to make the outline of a strawberry.

Momchillo nodded. "And it's covered in little seeds."

"Sweet too."

Snakeskin shook his head. "The only frui' I remember likin' is pineapple."

"Pineapple?" The two woodlanders asked in unison. Fret narrowed his eyes in doubt and suspicion. "Is that even a real thing?"

"Course it's a real thin'!" Snakeskin sounded thunderstruck. "It's all scale-y an' sharp on the outside, an' hard on the inside. Brigh' yeller an' acid an'- an'- 'Ellgates, I wanna pineapple now!" Now that he'd started, there was no stopping the stoat.

"I used te travel a lo', see. Been all over the 'ole wide worl'." He sighed wistfully. "Ye migh' not think much of pirates- I imagine abbeyfolk ain't too acquain'ed with vermin- but I used te sail an' I used te plunder." He shrugged- now fully enthralled in his own story and unaware that both his companions were only half paying attention. "Good ole days those were. Now ye probably don' know wha' pineapple is coz ye 'aven't ever been te the tropics. An' I wager ye 'aven't 'eard of mangoes neither. Kiwis and coconu'. Leeche an' banana-"

"We know bananas!" Momchillo said suddenly. "There was this one hamster from Southwards that came to the abbey and he brought loads! You remember, right Fret?"

All Fret remembered was slipping over a peel somebeast else had carelessly discarded, knocking Blind Agatha off her feetpaws (and nearly out the window) and then being told not to be so 'careless'. He also remembered not liking the golden-furred hamster. Not because he'd ever spoken to him, but because of that one time he'd brought casks of olive oil...

"I remember." He said bitterly.

Snakeskin chuckled. "Ye don' sound pleased by that." He shrugged grandly. "Bu' I suppose bananas are an acquired taste. Some like 'em, some don'. Personally I think the peels make fer a great trap. Ye eat the fruit, leave the skin on the floor an' watch somebeast else fall on their arse! Hahahaha! This one time- hehehe- this one- Whimper." Laughter exploded from out the stoat. A great hurricane of 'hahas' that echoed down the icy cave and never seemed to end. By the time he was done, he was seated on the floor and clutching at shaking ribs. A few deep breaths later and- still snickering between every sentence- he managed to tell the story. Which was somehow, not as funny as he'd made it out to be.

"So we was on a boat. An' there wasn' anythin' te eat 'cept fur these bananas we got off some islan'. So, peels all over the deck- slip goes Whimper an' splash goes the sea. So 'e's treadin' water, rats are good a' that, an' out comes Marik. 'E tosses another beast overboard an' then starts shoutin' at everybeas' te stop the boat an' turn i' around. 'E slips an' falls in the water an' I'm just laughin'. Marik starts shoutin' an' nearly drownin' the other two, didn' like water much see. An' then out comes Slit an' she starts bossin' everybeast presen'. Guess what 'appens?"

Fret did not want to guess, and was barely holding back a panic attack. Marik, Whimper, Slit- Momchillo did not need to know all those names. Or who and what they were. A paw made sure that the book was still safely hidden. Luckily, it was... For now...

Much to Fret's horror, the mouse was enjoying the story. "Slip goes Slit and splash goes the sea?"

"Bingo!" Cried Snakeskin, who then went back to laughing. "An' then, then I said 'shark! Shark! Sha-ahahahahaha! Ye should've seen their faces! Poor Marik, nearly drowned 'imself on the spot! Hahahaha!" The laughter went on for a while longer, but soon Snakeskin was on his feetpaws and guiding them out another tunnel. "Ah! Those were the days." He said, sighing wistfully.

"Yeah." Fret agreed dumbly, hoping the subject would be dropped. As the silence stretched on his heart rate began to slow back down again. But it was not to last, and furious, frightened, beating shot through him like a bolt of lightning upon hearing Momchillo's question.

"If you don't mind me asking." The mouse started slowly. "Who exactly are all these beasts? Marik and Whimper and-"

"Th-they're not important." Fret said suddenly. Momchillo raised an eyebrow and the ferret hastily averted his gaze. A paw scratched determinedly at the back of his neck. "I-I- mean- i-if they were he- he'd have said so, wouldn't he?" The mouse was staring at him skeptically. Perhaps it was his obvious nervousness, or maybe he knew more than he was letting on.

"Yer righ', they ain' importan'." Snakeskin grinned at him, and Fret felt his ears pin themselves to the back of his head. "They just used te be mates of mine. Marik and Slit were ferret's like 'im." The stoat unhelpfully jabbed a thumbclaw in Fret's direction. "An' Whimper was a rat. Don' ask me 'o the other rat was I've forgo'en 'is name see."

"Right." Momchillo was still staring at Fret.

The ferret in question wasn't sure if he could breathe anymore. The pressure on his chest was mounting by the second. It was like when the snake had swallowed him- his heart was beating fast but he could do nothing and every inch of his form was being crushed by walls of muscle.

"Are you okay?" Came the mouse's voice, filled with genuine concern. "You look pale."

Fret nearly sighed with relief. Momchillo suspected nothing. He was saved! At least for the time being... "I'm fine." He replied, and meant it. The danger had passed.

"Wan' te 'ear about 'ow my eye got all 'ypnotized?"

Momchillo nodded. "Yes please!"

Snakeskin smirked. "I wan' a story firs' then. Only fair see. Tail fer a tail, tale fer a tale."

Fret was more than happy to remain in silence- tails and tales be damned. But Momchillo, like Snakeskin, loved talking. So of course he shrugged, ignorant and oblivious to Fret's inner-facepaw. "What do you want to hear about?"

"Hmmm... Let me 'ear about- 'ow abou'- I dunno anythin' really. So long as the path south ain' silent I'm 'appy."

* * *

 _Footnote: This chapter was short- and ever-so-slightly filler-y. The rest of Fret and Momchillo's next few chapters should be fun. This is really when all the flashbacks come in. I know it may seem a bit abrupt to go from Sharpfur to Fret so suddenly, but the pacing of this story is do uneven. So the next few chapters should be Fret and Momchillo, then we'll get some of Connington and company. Then oneoor two more chapters for everyone and then everyone should finish their Book II arcs at roughly the same time (I say roughly because really, it is *very* roughly). So yeah, we're nearing the end of Book II although we're still quite a ways off._


	53. Meanwhile, Amidst The Skulls

**A/N: Abrahem: Yeah, I'm pretty sure there are always ads on this site- although it depends whether you're viewing it in mobile or desktop. You can add 'Sick-Eyes' to the list of eye character names, and Slit-Eye the Slit-Throat and Mad-Eye Marik, eyes are (apparently) a pretty common naming scheme**

 **We shall be getting the olive oil incident some time in Book III, although I don't want to shoehorn it so it might end up in a drabble instead. We're not that close to the end really, but we are close. I think I'm just going to finish all of the Southern Arcs next, and then finish off the Northern plotlines. So next chapter should either be Redwall or Salamandastron.**

 **My computer won't let me open the article, but I think I get the gist of it. You copy good writing in order to learn what is good writing- amiright?**

 **Most likely yes- it's my 'internet name' so to speak.**

 **Yeah, I'm not sure if it will be as long as Book II, but definetly longer than Book I (pacing is this story's weakness, but I think I make up for that)**

 **We'll see when we get to Salamandastron, but I think I have got something written along those lines.**

 **And thanks, yeah my birthday was last monday. I'm probably gonna put some more doodles on my deviantart... been ages since I uploaded anything.**

 **The issue with the recording is mostly Abbot Martin. I cannot for the life of me do an 'old mouse' voice. Especially since he goes through quite a few emotional ranges. It's also hard to do Constance without making her a high-pitched squeaky thing or a er- manly woman.**

 **As for Maggie May, I'm not sure if I already said this or not, but I guess I could use it- not anytime soon obviously, and I don't see many places where everyone will burst into song. So that's a maybe? As for the song itself, it's not bad, decently catchy (not like I know anything about music...) but it is a bit surprising that a children's author was singing this... although the Redwall series does have quite a few Ho Yays so... that explains it then.**

 **Remnants of Fantasy: I left a more detailed review on the picture itself, but I just wanted to say thank you again for doing it. It means a lot and was a nice surprise. Also the first piece of fanart I've recieved so that's a milestone. Gosh I'm getting famous XD And yes, poor Fret will never have peace of mind around Snakeskin.**

 **Sebias of Redwall: You don't have to review every chapter (or any chapter for that matter, reviews are appreciated but optional)so I'm not going to hold this against you. But glad you're enjoying it.**

 **AlexFalTalon: Comedy is my favorite genre, period. And while this story is not exactly a laugh-out-loud festival, I am glad that particular line was well-recieved.**

"Ow."

"Ow."

"Ow!"

"Will ye cut it out!?" Sick-Eyes demanded. "Yer eye's fine- it's just the flesh around it's all swollen an' gettin' in yer way."

"That's nice to know." Deathglare spoke through gritted teeth. His jaw was fixed so tightly it was a miracle words were even coming out. "My eye's fine but it still hurts and I can't see. Praise Vulpuz!"

The older pine marten growled, and promptly poked his bad eye. Deathglare hissed and immediately stood up, his paws clasping at his face.

"That's what ye get for yer attitude. Now sit back down an' let me fix it for ye."

"I'm good thanks." He growled. "Go poke Silver's paw or something."

"She already has Death." The weasel reminded him.

"Nobeast asked you anything." The pine marten spat, taking a seat besides the singer.

Sick-Eyes shook her head in despair. "No wonder the hare got the better of ye. No hypnotism with an eye like that, eh?"

"No." Deathglare admitted after a pause.

Silvertongue shrieked with laughter, and punched the marten lightly on the shoulder. "Fails ye when ye need it the most! Typical limbs am I right?"

"Eyes aren't limbs." Was Deathglare's cold reply, his eyes fixing the weasel with a glare. Silvertongue's grin faltered, and fell. "Now if you'll excuse me I think I'll go check on said hare. We wouldn't want him pulling a fast one on us."

"Miss yer barrel do ye?" Sick-Eyes teased, her grin wide and childlike and full of mocking laughter.

Deathglare did not reply.

"I'll go an' make sure the woodlanders are still breathin'." Silvertongue offered. "I ain't much use here anyways." He waved his thickly-bandaged paw for emphasis and without waiting for any kind of reply stood up and crossed the kitchen. As he walked a few of the slaves waved. He recognized the missing-finger otter and the droopy old mouse, and he waved back by way of greeting. Nearly all the slaves they'd recruited had been hesitant at first to join any kind of rebellion- but now it was different and anybeast who wound up knowing about it, flocked to the kitchens.

They had full control of the kitchens, which meant, ironically, that as per usual, his wife was in charge of feeding everybeast. It also meant that slipping poison into somebeast's soup was easier, and although the king had somebeast to test for him- most of the officers did not. Quite a few captains and chiefs had died in their sleep over the last few days- and as punishment more slaves were 'killed' and 'turned to soup'. And with the 'dead' slaves free they could now work on sabotaging the boats.

It was a simple plan- one that he would one day claim as his. Of course it would have all failed dramatically if the wolverine decided he wanted his men to have proper burials. But that was not the case. No, the king trusted Flayface the fox with the corpses and didn't question what he was eating.

 _"Such dutiful guardsbeasts." The weasel had said, cradling the skull of a rat that had once been master-at-arms, but was now a pasty-filling. "Protectin' his majesty's stummick from all kinds of aches an' pains."_

 _"Stops his royal highness from goin' hungry. What a hard-working beast he is." Sickletail added and they had both laughed._

The slaves were only too happy to be free, and as such did not bring up the how's and the why's. Some, mostly the vermin, were delighted to hear about the grim fate of their former oppressors. But most would go as green as the one-eyed hare and run into a guilty corner, so Silvertongue did not bother to let them in on the secret. All they knew was that they were leaving as soon as they were ready.

The castle had never been a noisy place. All winter the halls had been silent, and that was at full capacity. Now it was both empty and quiet.

Perhaps it was instinct, or maybe just the grinning skulls glaring down at him, but Silvertongue always got the impression that somebeast was watching him. A ghost or a spirit, Vulpuz himself perhaps.

The weasel shivered, both for the cold and for his nerves, and proceeded at greater speed. Next time, he'd let Deathglare go on his own... luckily for him, the path to the cellars was not a long one. Down a few hallways, down a few hidden staircases and, as Threeclaw would say, voila!

"Battle's one thing old chap." The hare was saying. "You fight the enemy face to face, whisker to whisker, wot. Nothing but a pair of angry bodies beating at each other like a hammer on an anvil. It's bloody horrible but it's a damn sight better than cooking somebeast." He was talking to Connington of course, the drunk mouse had been denied drink ever since the rebellion had started and was well on his way to recovery. Unfortunately, he was also having the most painful hangover of his life.

 _Serves him right, the drunk fool..._

"Well they're dead by the time we cook 'em." Silvertongue reminded, mostly to announce his arrival. "It's up to ye whether ye prefer poison te the battlefield."

"I don't really have a preference." One-eye retorted. "But there's dignity to one-"

"An' success te the other. Take yer dignity an' shove it in yer tail it's not like we got many options here." It amazed Silvertongue to no end that a grizzled old hare of the long patrol was so squeamish.

"I know that! But it still doesn't make any of this feel any better, morally-speaking of course, wot."

"That's just yer tummy talkin'. Rat ain't good for yer stummick I heard." The weasel snickered, and watched in satisfaction as One-eye went a small shade greener. "Anyway, I came te check on ye. Seems yer still alive so that's good."

"Your concern for my wellbeing is _bally_ heartwarming."

It was Silvertongue's turn to be disgusted. Him? Heartwarming? Only to Sickle! "We don't really have anybeast what can wear the mask so yer important. That's all."

"That's a shame ole chap. I was beginning to think you were growing attached to me." The hare's voice dripped with sarcasm, but the weasel didn't seem to pick up on that.

"I've got a wife ye know." The singer snarled, waving a fist. "And she's the only beast I'm attached te. Well her an' the kids, but they're all dead now so take yer attachment somewhere else."

"Well I _had_ a wife- but plague and all that, you know how it is, and I _had_ a son but you kidnapped him, wot. So my attachment has been feeling rather lonely as of late." The Long Patrol Captain pointed at a piece of floor opposite him, offering it as a seat.

"That hare was yer whelp, eh?" Silvertongue sat down, mostly to delay his inevitable forray through the no-doubt haunted halls of the castle, and scratched his chin. "No wonder the lad couldn't sing. Horribly out of tune, just like his dear one-eyed papa it seems." The weasel shook his head. "He ain't here, but that ain't my fault now is it? Sorry about yer missus, but plague ain't too bad a way te go."

Fleetfoot One-eye harrumphed skeptically, but was a polite beast when it suited him. "And I'm sorry for your loss. The death of a child is always a tragedy." And because he knew exactly what the weasel would have asked next, he added. "Even vermin children."

Silvertongue, who had been about to ask 'even vermin children?' closed his mouth and frowned. "That's nice of ye te say."

For a short while they sat in silence, until Connington gave a great wretch, rose to his feetpaws and emptied his stomach into a nearby barrel. Wiping his mouth on wrist-fur filthy enough to make anybeast else sick, the mouse slid back to the ground with a groan.

One-eye reached over to carefully pat the mouse's shoulder. "You know what they say ole chap. Better out than in, wot."

"I've been meanin' te ask." Silvertongue butted in. "Why'd ye bring a drunk on a rescue mission? Ye can't be that daft can ye?"

"Connington's not a drunk." The hare grumbled pointedly, only for the weasel to laugh.

"Ye really are half-blind aren't ye? If he ain't drunk, I'm a bloody lizard."

The hare shook his head. "That's not what I meant. He isn't normally like this. Most likely coping with grief. You kidnapped his nephew, wot."

"Grief? He's grievin'?" The weasel snickered and shook his head. "I lost far more than that an' ye don't see me streamin' tears."

One-eye did not reply but after a short pause ventured to ask. "You have no idea where the children are do you?"

"Nope."

"They weren't with you here?"

"Only the mouse and ferret." Silvertongue replied. "But Frettie's not even a slave." Thinking about the ferret always made him mad. The cowardly kit had watched his paw get flayed away... It was not a coincidence that all their bad luck had started the day Sharpfur and Greyclaw had brought the ferret to their camp.

The hare was staring at him dumbly. "C-could you say that again?"

"The damned ferret ain't a slave. There was this big feast not too long ago an' he was there, sittin' on a mound of pillows while I toiled away in the kitchens. Then I start talkin' te him an' he doesn't remember me so I get mad, snap a bit and then this mad rat comes along and-" Silvertongue shivered and growled all at once. "Flayed me paw."

Fleetfoot glanced worriedly in Connington's direction. He'd had his misgivings about the ferret from the start of the quest, and such feelings had only been strengthened by Roseheart's version of events. Now he didn't know what to feel. This was horrible news no matter which angle he looked at it from.

 _"He is coming home. I will_ drag him back _if I have to!"_

The mouse had said, all those many weeks ago when they had first found the molemaid and the weasel pups. Perhaps it was a good thing Jon Connington was hung over...

Silvertongue stood up. "Well if ye need us we'll be in the kitchen cookin' up some stoat stew."

"I think I'll pass."

The singer turned to leave.

"Out of curiosity." Came One-eye's voice, just as he'd reached the doorway . "How _old_ were your children?"

Silver paused for thought, did a quick mental headcount and spun on his heel. "Well Heartrip was gonna be a full twenty, Blizz an' Red should've been nineteen. Sharpfur an' Greyclaw were about ten an' a half, eleven-ish. The girls were about four an' Cheese would've been-"

"Three daughters and a baby boy?" For some reason the hare sounded... Happy? Excited? Cheerful?

"Aye. That's it." The weasel replied carefully. Why was the one-eyed captain smiling?

"Seems you're still a father ole chap. We sent the last four to Redwall Abbey."

Silvertongue frowned in disbelief. "Yer pullin' me tail here."

"Give me one bally reason to lie about something like that."

* * *

Silvertongue burst through the kitchen doors faster than a bolt of lightning. "Sickle! I've got the best news ye'll ever hear!"

The female weasel raised an eyebrow as her mate clasped her paws in his own. "The boats are ready?" She would be glad to leave the place of course, but was that really the _best_ news she'd ever hear?

"Our babies are alive!"

"Yet jokin'?" He did not seem to be, and was bouncing on the spot, his tail a small red blur behind him. There was nothing in his eyes but pure delight.

"Course not! The hare said so. Found them in a barrel an' took 'em te the abbey. Isn't this wonderful?"

Indeed it was and soon the two were spinning round the kitchen, chanting 'they're alive' at the top of their lungs.

"How can this possibly be good news," Deathglare rubbed at his forehead. "If they're in the bloody abbey?"

Sickletail kicked him. "It ain't bad news if that's what yet tryin' the imply. An' so what? They raised young Fret didn't they?"

"And would you say 'young Fret' was the pinnacle of successful parenting?"

Silvertongue kicked him too. "My kids ain't nothin' like the no-good little sneak anyways. An' it's fine, we give 'em the hare and his drunk mouse an' we get our babies back. Simple!"

* * *

One-eye came to this same conclusion down in the cellars. Frankly it came as a relief. The alliance he had with the vermin would only have lasted as long as it took for them to escape. But now he and Connington could at least hope to keep their lives a little longer and the uneasy working relationship would continue.

Their lives were secure, but happiness was another thing. His son was probably still missing. Somewhere in Mossflower woods... And if what Silvertongue had said was true, well, he'd have some comforting to do...

"Better out than in ole chap. You'll be right as rain soon enough, wot!" And he'd have some explaining to do. But how did one beast tell another that their nephew had gone bad?

* * *

 _Footnote: A bit of a shorter chapter than usual, but I'm saving the good stuff for when I can focus on the Northlands. Just wanted to say thank you to anyone who's read this. This story has passed ten thousand views._


	54. The Trial Of Threeclaw

**A/N: Sebias: Perhaps, perhaps not. Time (and I) will tell.**

 **Abrahem: I think the exact age is a bit confusing and I think I changed it up a few times over the course of the story (oops). In my head they're all about 8-10. Sharpfur was ten and a half when Fret first met him so he should be eleven soon if we're counting seasons=years. If seasons=seasons then they should all be about thirteen-ish? I prefer to coubc seasons=years, but I think I used to count seasons=seasons (there's a passage in Book I where Tibbers has seen only two winters, which makes little sense if he's lived long enough to see eight, but of course he's wintering in Salamandastron most of the time which means he probably hasn't seen too many winters anyway). Character ages aside, I put Tibbers at eight, Sharpfur soon-eleven. The twins at about thirteen-ish and the Junior Corporal at around sixteen. Bork I don't remember, but the faux-Whimper (Klis is a great Redwall name) I imagine at about twelve, thirteen.**

 **The Honest Bunch aren't exactly 'shifting' blame onto Fret. They're just blaming him. Look at it from their point of view. They find Fret, stop him freezing to death, feed him and offer hospitality. They're nice to him. Then he tries to free the abbey children, which they of course don't like. That in itself is a betrayal of sorts but they don't exactly punish him. Next thing they know they're attacked and thrown into slavery and the next time they see Fret he is sitting at a feast. They don't blame him for the rats, but the rats did only show up after he did (it's a coincidence of course, but people rationalize things as best they can). Plus they're not exactly throwing him under the bus. Silvertongue had no idea Fret was Connington's nephew and therefore no idea how important Fret is to him, and by extent, One-eye.**

 **I quite like the idea of comedically missing tooth, but I never really bring it up because I'm pretty sure most animals handle teeth differently to us humans. Maybe it grew back.**

 **Aside from Silvertongue none of the Honest Bunch hate Fret. Deathglare was commenting on how confused/conflicted the ferret was. Fret was also rather miserable on the boat ride and noone likes a crybaby. So there's a lot in regards to Fret.**

 **I think Fret would have gone back to Redwall had he managed to cut the rope- but then this story would be long over, wouldn't it? And he can't really stay with the Honest Bunch after he went behind their backs to free them. He could have stayed of course, they weren't going to kill him obviously, not for something like that anyways. But they would have been a bit unhappy.**

 **Never read Mariel of Redwall so I don't really know. I'll look into this though.**

 **Quite a long chapter here for you guys. The trial of Threeclaw has been something I have been eagerly waiting to write for quite a while. It's one of those 'first images' you get before you start writing a story. Of course originally originally Threeclaw wasn't called Threeclaw and the trial was for very different reasons, but I digress.**

 **Another reason this chapter is extra long is because I'm going to take a short break from this story in order to finish up my other one. We're at the climax of With A Sigh of Resignation anyways so it shouldn't be *too* long.**

 **But for now, enjoy the last of Book II's Redwall chapters.**

Matiya did not know what time it was, only that the moon was high in the sky and shining through the abbey windows. He did not remember ever feeling so full. The squirrel had eaten so much he was reduced to a slow, exhausted waddle.

It had been a long day, a very, very long day and his head was spinning. There were too many thoughts to keep track of.

He was back, home again. Even now he dared not believe it. This was a dream, it had to be a dream. And when he woke up he would be tied to a mast and the Honest Bunch would be all around him, laughing and joking and taunting and teasing... But at least then he'd be with his friends. Chubby Grollo and witty Momchillo. And Jack-is-Lucky who was funny and Tibbers who was small. And Hawthorn and Roseheart and even Fret who was complicated.

He could not remember a day he hadn't spent with his friends. They had been inseparable even as dibbuns, the only thing that had really changed were the games they'd played. Tag, hide-and-seek, blind beast's buff. Yet now it would just be him and Roseheart and they had not been that close to begin with. Friends of course, but very different. Roseheart liked to sniff at flowers and pick fruit. He liked to run around waving a stick.

The dormitories were perhaps the most extensive part of the abbey building. Cavern Hole and the Great Hall were of course, huge, but the dormitories were bigger because there were more of them. There was Bella Badgermum's, the largest of all chambers, then a long row for all the remaining rooms. None were particularly big and most were practically empty. A few prized possessions, a spare habit, tunic or two, a bed, a few portraits, pictures or tapestries and a candle-holder.

Matiya's room- _his room_ \- he remembered painfully, was somewhere at the end of the long hall.

 _This is why I hate mushrooms. Always make me heavy…_

But he had dreamed of being a warrior, and it took more than mushrooms to fell a warrior. Determinedly he advanced, he would sleep on a bed tonight if it was the last thing he did!

His eyelids drooped and yawns came more and more often and were harder and harder to put down. His stomach, busy with digestion, gave a guilty twist every time he passed a room he was familiar with. He knew the chambers of his friends as well as his own. Grollo's had nothing more than a prized ladle his father had made for him and a cookie jar his mother made sure to always keep full. No doubt the biscuits were stale by now... Roseheart had a row of potted plants along her windowsill and Hawthorn hung her self-made tapestries all over. Momchillo had a stuffed otter Fret had given him, a few twigs he liked the look of, a pebble or two of interesting shape and colour, and a few books he borrowed from the Recorder to read on a rainy day. In all likelihood the Recorder had taken them back, but the rest of his stuff remained untouched.

Matiya's was the fullest of them all. A massive tapestry of Martin the Warrior, made by Hawthorn and Roseheart for his birthday, hung over his bed. A work of art if ever there was one, and he'd often joked about having to defend it from vermin. He regretted that now. He should have never called anybeast vermin...

A collection of wooden swords, each one broken in some way and the last one missing. Threeclaw had sliced it clean in two, back when they had first been kidnapped.

A paw passed along the handles of the toy blades. Most he'd broken himself- wooden swords and indeed real swords were not meant for hitting walls- but a few had other stories. Fret and Grollo had each broken one and both times he hadn't spoken to them for a week. Grollo had apologized profusely in protest to his silence, but Fret had fought fire with fire and only grew more sullen.

He regretted that now. If Fret had not been sullen they would all still be together, laughing and playing or arguing. Either was better than being alone.

Of all his worldly possessions the most important to him now was his bed. The blankets were cold, and dust flew into the air when he hit the mattress. But what did it matter? He was filthy anyways, and _tired._ Soon he was also snoring.

* * *

In _his dreams he was always a warrior. Big and strong and brave. Perhaps not handsome (depending on the dream) but always just and honorable. With the Sword of Martin in paw he tore through the cold and empty castle. All around him skulls were laughing from where they hung upon the walls. The skulls of mice and voles and shrews- innocent slaves captured and put to work in some pit. He was here for justice. Down in the grounds he'd left Momchillo and Grollo to guide the slaves to freedom. He had business to attend to._

 _The warlord would only rear his ugly head again if he let him have the chance, and then every innocent creature in Mossflower country would suffer. No, he was a hero. Abbey Warrior. He protected the innocent and it was his job to make sure this cruel slavemaster kept his iron paws to himself._

 _A huge rat roared down at him. The savage wore a necklace of bones and a squirrel-skin pelt. Was this the warlord? He scarcely had time left to think before the beast was upon him. Spit flew and dripped from it's open jaws as it swung an axe down at him. Such a weapon and with such force, would have to be dodged._

 _But in his dreams Matiya was stronger than anything. Almost casually he raised his blade, and caught the axe by the handle. The force of the blow sent the weapon shaking. A moment later he had bypassed his opponent, a swift, bloodless jab to the stomach sent the savage to the floor. Never would he rise again._

 _Matiya continued towards the throne room, where he knew he'd find the warlord. Another large rat perhaps, or a small, cunning weasel. It made no difference. All it took was one swing of his sword and the beast would fall and Mossflower would be safe. Hopefully in time for tea, the biscuits smelled like cinnamon._

 _The hall opened up like the mouth of a serpent, stretching impossibly wide around him, and he knew at last that he had arrived. A massive seat stood before him, a tremendous pile of skulls and bones. A great green serpent, it's eyes the colour of jade, coiled around the throne. But it was not a rat he found seated amidst the soft pillows. It was not a weasel of any shape or form who shrunk at the sight of him._

 _"You couldn't stay away, could you?" Fret squeaked. He was not much of a warlord in truth. Life in the castle had made him plump, but he was small and shaking. In his paws there was a crown of copper, with thirteen golden spines jutting out. Despite his newfound weight, he was smaller than Matiya had ever seen him. The throne, the pillows and the serpent at his feetpaws all seemed likely to swallow him up. The squirrel felt his breath caught in his throat._

 _"Y-you had to come and be the hero. Y-you had to. Couldn't- couldn't just leave me alone." The crown slipped from his paws and the ferret curled in on himself, cradling his knees and rocking to and fro. "I wouldn't have done anything."_

 _Matiya could not remember why he was here. Slaves, he was rescuing slaves. Yet that notion seemed silly now. The snake was rising up, on it's great, scaly head lay the crown. "I came for you." He said at once and knew it to be true. The kidnapping, the attempted stabbing... all of it... none of it mattered! "To bring you home! The others are back already-"_

 _"Liar!" The ferret whined, rocking ever-harder. "Liar, liar, liar, liar."_

 _Matiya felt the breath leave his lungs. No, he wanted to say. It was the truth. The squirrel took a step backwards._

 _"What's the matter?" Snapped the ferret, wiping his eyes dry. "Was it something I said?"_

 _"N-no-"_

 _"Was it something I did?" The desperation in his eyes was painful to watch. It was as if the ferret's very life depended on the answer. "I didn't want to do this." He said, shaking his head. "I didn't mean to do this. I didn't want to do anything. I didn't_ do _anything."_

 _"It's not your fault." Matiya found his voice and sheathed the blade of Martin the Warrior. He would not be needing it now. There was no warlord to kill. Only another beast to help. He stretched a paw out towards Fret. "Nothing's your fault."_

 _The ferret's claws dug into his own tail. "You're right." His voice was nothing more than a squeak, the kind of noise only a frightened child could make. "It's yours!"_

 _The snake lunged and Matiya went for his blade. He never got the chance to unsheathe it though, an arrow hit his paw and his fingers exploded with pain._

* * *

The squirrel's eyes shot open and he instantly became aware of blood on his paw. In the panicked fumble of sleep he'd gone for the sword of Martin the Warrior- only to find Threeclaw's stolen rapier. It's sharp blade had tore a long gash along the inside of his fingers and now he was bleeding. Last spring he'd have ran straight to his mother, but he'd seen and dealt with far worse wounds by now. Anyhow his bruises hurt more. Wiping his paw on the blanket, he made sure to, very carefully, place the blade in a corner of his room.

"What a dream." He mused, rubbing at his head and getting small droplets of blood in-between his fur. As was the case with sleeping dreams, he remembered little of it. Only that Fret had been there, fat and frightened and in the coils of a large snake.

He shook his head determinedly. His friends were fine, and definitely not anywhere near a snake.

Marching forwards the squirrel pushed open the curtains, and was met with far more light than he had expected. The sun was high in the sky and Matiya had to step backwards. What was the time? How long had he been asleep?

"Matee'a? Are ee oop yet?" Came Roseheart's voice.

"Yes." There had been a lot of blood apparently, and spots of red surrounded a long, crimson streak on the center of his blanket. "Yes I just woke up." He replied, ripping his bloodstained blanket off the bed just as the door opened. Swiftly, he turned his back on her, so that she did not get a glimpse of red. It would not do for anybeast to see all the blood. Not now when they'd no doubt fuss over him. "So, what's for breakfast?" He asked nonchalantly, kicking the offending blanket under his bed to be dealt with later.

"Brekfust be over. Abbot Martin said not to waken ee oop. Said ee'd need to catch up on yurr zleepin'." She sported a raised eyebrow as she watched him wrestle the blanket, but, thankfully, did not question him.

"Oh, right. I'm not hungry anyways." And how could he be? He'd eaten enough food to fill a badger only a few hours ago.

There was a hint of worry in Roseheart's eyes that Matiya did not know how to deal with. He gave her a sheepish grin.

"I look a right mess, don't I?"

She shook her head and wrinkled her nose. "Not a roight mess zurr, moibe in need of a bay-thin'. Abbot Martin tolden oi to call 'ee to th'ole. It be abowt... 'ee stoat."

Threeclaw! How had he forgotten about Threeclaw? A familiar and unpleasant nervousness creeped up on him now. "Well, w-we mustn't keep him waiting then. You know how he gets." Not even he was sure whether he was talking about Abbot Martin or Threeclaw.

Ignoring the nervousness, and Roseheart's worried stare, Matiya dashed down the hall as fast as his feetpaw could carry him. He arrived, breathless, a few moments later. He found Abbot Martin seated besides the Recorder, who was talking ceaselessly, the older mouse had his head against the table, a gesture Matiya knew to indicate irritation. A few other beasts were crowded around, but Matiya payed them no mind and made his way to where Threeclaw lay draped over a chair.

The albino looked bored, his three-clawed paw spinning a fork around, yet when he caught sight of the squirrel he grinned slightly, and twisted around so that he was upside down. "Bon to be back, si?"

"Yeah." The squirrel replied distractedly.

"You look funny from upside down. I know squirrels can climb and all, but walking upside down is not the same thing."

"What's all this about?" Matiya asked, waving a paw around the Hole.

The stoat's smile went upside-down as he twisted and slunk back into a normal seating position. "Your abbeybeasts wanted to ask me some things."

"Oh."

"Oh indeed."

Matiya shook his head and felt the nervousness return. "I-it's- fine. They just, want to... Clarify... Some things. Few questions. Nothing much."

The stoat rolled his eyes and pointed at a nearby, unoccupied stool. "I know."

"How are you feeling?" Matiya was forced to ask as he sat down.

"As cool as a concombre, as calm as a coracle and as bored as a badger."

Bella must have heard him, for she glared in his direction. Threeclaw did not seem to notice and shrugged.

"But I am supposing you woodlanders have your ways."

* * *

Abbot Martin had intended it to be a short, informative discussion between himself and the stoat. The Recorder would write down notes on all that was said and Matiya would then confirm the truth of it all. But then Bella had caught wind of the plan and tagged along to act as bodyguard, in case the vermin tried anything. And then he had asked Constance to come, to make sure Bella did not accidentally kill their guest. The Recorder had next invited Lily Prickla over to add all the details she knew. Then Blind Agatha had insisted that she would stay with her son and Rosebrush had wanted to ask and hear about hers. And then the Friar and his wife had joined them, Roseheart and the Foremole, the Log-a-log (currently suffering from a mild hangover) three other shrews and a pair of hares.

The old mouse had then drawn a line, and just in case, assigned every other abbeybeast a long and frustrating job to do. Mostly picking fruit and cleaning up the grounds, but poor Mormont had ended up on dish duty. He was quite sure that such precautions were not well-recieved, but at least nobeast would be listening in from behind the doors.

"Like I was saying- oh look Matiya's here. Poor boy's been dragged through the mud by the look of it."

Abbot Martin sat up and rubbed at his eyelids. Indeed Matiya was there, looking slightly confused, and as Montague had pointed out, rather filthy. The abbot cleared his throat and drew the attention towards himself. "Now, I'm sure we are all aware as to why we are here. But just to reiterate, this is not an interrogation, this is not a trial, we just want answers. That's all. I ask nothing from anybeast present, only that when they speak that they speak the truth."

There was a murmur of agreement and Abbot Martin went on. "Now Matiya, please explain what happened? How did- how- perhaps start from the beginning. To the best of your memory, what happened at the last feast?"

Matiya had not expected to be asked anything, not this early in the er-late afternoon anyways. "Well." He said, though what he meant was 'um'. "Well, we were eating." He resisted the urge to facepaw. But Abbot Martin gave a nod of encouragement and Matiya cleared his throat. "It all started I suppose when Jack started juggling. An eggplant or something fell in a bowl of soup and Fret and Tibbers got drenched."

"You're quite sure it was an eggplant?" Asked Montague, his paw clenched tightly around an ever-moving quill.

"Er- it could have been a turnip. Maybe a radish." Matiya scratched the side of his head. Had it in fact been an onion?

"Please continue." Abbot Martin requested, waving away the pointless detail.

The squirrel nodded and did as the abbot requested. "So, Fret left the hall all unhappy and stuff. Then I went to make sure he was alright and found him on the walltops." Liar liar liar liar liar. The squirrel's insides twisted cruelly. "He er- seemed er-upset." He had been upset and Matiya had been confused. "Nearly slipped off the walls but I caught him and then he er- well I went back to the feast." He shouldn't have done that. He should have stayed on the walltops with the soup-covered ferret.

"Alright. Now, Threeclaw. As I understand it you were-" Abbot Martin never got the chance to finish his question. Finding all the right words was difficult, especially in a situation as complicated as this.

"You were working with Fret." The Recorder interrupted.

"That's not-" Matiya started, but Threeclaw interrupted him.

"Shhhh, it's me they're asking amigo."

Matiya scowled at him but remained silent.

Montague went on. "But this confused us. Fret never left the abbey before, yet somehow he ended up in cahoots-" Here Threeclaw began snickering. "With you." The Recorder finished rather crossly.

"And who told you that?" The stoat asked but did not wait for a reply. "Premierenent, I didn't find Frettie, my copains did. Deuxiement I was never being in cocoons-"

"Cahoots." Lily Prickla corrected softly.

"That. With anybeast." Threeclaw smirked. "Frettie was found at the bottom of your big rouge walls. He seemed likely to die in the cold so he was brought to our camp." The stoat shrugged. "We patched him up a little and then he was free to do what he pleased."

The Recorder seemed likely to start interrogating again so Abbot Martin swiftly changed the subject.

"Now Matiya. Please explain what happened next."

"Right. The next morning as you know nobeast could find Fret. So er- we thought we'd give it a try. Me and Jack and Tibbers, Momchillo, Grollo, Hawthorn and Roseheart." He swallowed slightly to keep down the guilt rising inside of him. All of his friends, and he'd lead them into danger… "We went to look for him and-" Here he stopped abruptly.

"And?" Demanded the Recorder.

"And we-" He stopped again and glanced at Threeclaw.

"And they ran into moi." The stoat finished, jabbing a thumbclaw into his chest for emphasis.

Roseheart nodded dumbly. "Th-that's the truth." Matiya finished. For a moment Cavern Hole was silent as the grave.

"So this." Bella waved a paw around in indication of the missing children. "Is your fault."

The temperature dropped palpably and Matiya felt an icy chill run down his spine. He opened his mouth to offer some kind of defense, but the stoat beat him to it.

Threeclaw leaned back in his seat. "I kidnapped them. I tied them to a mast and sailed away with them." He smirked. "But the fault lies with the irresponsible parents who let their children walk out the gates."

Their was an uproar, and Abbot Martin wished he had some sort of hammer with which to restore peace and quiet. As it was all he could do was repeatedly ask for everybeast to calm down. Not that anybeast seemed to listen.

"You're bonkers! Blaming us for your crimes, wot!" Shouted a hare.

The Log-a-log stomped forwards, determined to wipe the smirk off his face. "My fault, eh? Oh-ho! We'll see who's fault it is after I've bashed your skull in!"

Matiya shot to his feet and stepped swiftly and firmly between the fat shrew and the stoat. "Wait! Wait, let me explain-"

"Explain what laddie!? He just said he done it! Now out of the way!" He made to barge past but Matiya shoved him backwards. Threeclaw laughed as the hung-over Log-a-log fell on his rump.

"No! I know what he did was bad but but- but he's changed!"

"Matiya? What are you saying?" His mother looked stricken.

"I haven't changed actually." Threeclaw added.

"And it's not his fault or Fret's fault we got kidnapped. It's mine!"

Abbot Martin did not remember Cavern Hole ever being so quiet. He opened and closed his mouth in surprise.

Matiya went on less fiercely. "It was my idea to go looking for Fret. I thought… I thought… Fret was hurt and it was because of me and I thought I'd help him out and I dragged everybeast down with me and-" Matiya swallowed. "This is my fault." Guilt and shame forced his gaze downwards. He could not bring himself to look at anybeast.

The sombre mood was ruined when Threeclaw, nodding continuously, pointed a claw at the squirrel. "This is his fault."

"'Ow can 'ee be zaying that Matee'a." Came Roseheart's voice. "When Frettie troied to stab Momchillo and ''ee-" she pointed a shaking digging claw at Threeclaw- "Stabbed Tibbers."

"WHAT!?" The Log-a-log was up on his feetpaws now and barged past Matiya before the squirrel could react. "He did what!?" Before he could get to the stoat, however, he was held back by Constance

"I stabbed the shrew, kicked the hare's rump and broke the squirrel's wooden sword." Threeclaw replied. "Pourquoi? Well fun fact, your kids attacked moi! No provocation, no warning- the hare charged first and the shrew second. I had to stab the shrew or else he might have stabbed me and I like my fur bloodless. The better question is pourquoi vous gave children real weapons."

Bella stood up suddenly and threw Threeclaw into her shadow. "And you expect us to believe that rubbish?"

"Ask your squirrel."

Bella growled. "Matiya tell the truth and tell it loudly. I want this beast to hear some honesty before I-"

"BELLA!" Abbot Martin cried, slamming his tiny fist into the table. "Sit back down this instant! Everybeast please calm down. Please. Shouting will not solve anything. Now Matiya, please continue. What happened next?"

"Well, they took us to their camp and Fret was there. And when I saw him I was angry. So I-er I punched his tooth loose." The squirrel sat back down on the stool. Somehow his legs did not seem able to take his weight any longer. "Then I don't know. Some time passed, we were in a tent. Tibbers was getting his shoulder patched up and then Fret told them that somebeast was hurt. Then he... He had a knife…"

"''Ee troied to stab Momchillo." Roseheart finished.

Threeclaw broke into loud laughter and leaned so far back in the chair that it came crashing to the floor. All that was visible from around the furniture were his legs kicking the air as he continued to cackle.

"What's so funny?" The Recorder demanded.

Threeclaw raised a paw and laughed for a good minute. When he had recovered, he sat up on the capsized chair. He was pink in the face and breathing heavily.

"You are funny! All of you! You're drole. _Frettie_ never tried to stab anybeast _. Frettie_ couldn't stab anybeast even if he wanted to. Why do you think I was stopping him?" Threeclaw shook his head. "Strange beast, I still have no idea why he wanted to come back here."

"What do you mean stop him?" Constance asked, still holding onto the Log-a-log.

"He was going to cut the rope." Said Matiya dumbly. They had screamed and shouted and said hurtful things and the ferret had wasted precious time stuttering.

"Exactement!" Threeclaw declared.

"So it is your fault!" Bella rose to her feet again. "You stopped them from-"

"Running amok in the wilds of Mossflower?" Threeclaw rolled his eyes. "Had Frettie succeeded they'd have been perdue. And there are far worse things than me that could find them."

"Like what?" Demanded the Badgermum.

"Cannibals. Owls. Les sauvage that killed my company." The stoat's smirk was back at maximum smugness. "It's lucky I ran into them vraiment."

The Log-a-log snarled and rose to his feetpaws. "You'll be lucky to get out alive."

"Really?" Threeclaw stopped spinning the fork and pointed it at the fat shrew's stomach. "You going to sit on me or something?" The stoat raised his paws in mock panic. "I am being afraid now! Save me somebeast, from this obese little thing!"

"Now er- Matiya." Said Abbot Martin very very loudly in an attempt to keep the situation under control. "Please continue. How did your ahem, partnership with Threeclaw start?"

"Well. We were sailing away on their boat." Matiya replied, trying his hardest to drown out the sound of Threeclaw snickering and loudly righting his chair. "When we got attacked. I-er don't know why. I'm not sure by whom. But it was a lot of black rats. We thought we'd use the diversion to escape maybe. So we got onto a lifeboat." Matiya looked down at his feetpaws again. "But I- I didn't want to leave Fret behind. So I went back to get him and..." He trailed off, his ears drooping. If they had managed to escape then they'd have spent the winter in Redwall... Together... But then Fret might have died... Fret might have died anyways.

His paws were shaking, and only now did he seem to register the pain in his bleeding wound. Hastily he hid them behind his back, but not before his silence had been noted.

"And?" The Recorder asked impatiently.

"Then he fell off the boat, got washed down the river and found moi." Threeclaw explained, gently patting the squirrel's head before retaking his seat. "I am supposing you want to know who attacked us?"

"I was just going to ask that." Montague said briskly, dipping his quill in ink.

"I have aucune idea. No clue!"

"Really?" Bella growled skeptically. "There's nobeast that wants you dead?"

"There are too many beasts that want me to be a cadaver." Threeclaw retorted. "It could have been another band of pirates. It could have been some Northern King. It could have been you for all I know." He shrugged. "They fought like you but there were many of them and we were beaten. Some rat sliced my throat open and I fell into la riviere. Your squirrel found me, saved mon vie." He pointed at his throat with the fork in one paw, and with the other brushed aside his fur for maximum visibility. Faintly a scar could be seen, stitched shut by a torn piece of habit. "La rest is history."

"So you haven't got a clue as to where the children are at?" Asked a hare.

"Aucune idea."

Silence followed his words, for nobeast knew what to say. The Recorder's quill raced along the parchment, scratching furiously and was responsible for all the noise in Cavern Hole until Abbot Martin spoke.

"Miss Prickla if you are willing to shed some light on this subject it would be most beneficial. We understand that Grollo, Hawthorn and ahem, a weasel that goes by Sharpfur have been in your care until recently. Could you explain how this came to pass?"

"Oh that's quite simple really. I was by the river one afternoon collecting some fresh water when they burst from the treeline. Dreadful state the poor things. Clothes torn, bleeding profusely- the weasel had a nasty burn." She hugged herself and shivered. "They were in a ghastly state. But I patched them up as best I could. Sweet children, all three of them. Very kind, very helpful, very clever-"

"If you don't mind me asking." The Recorder's voice came from behind a pile of drying parchment. "Why is it that you are here and they are not?"

It surprised Matiya little when the old hedgehog burst into tears and collapsed. Being swift, even for a squirrel, he managed to catch her before she fell, but it was all he could do to stop himself toppling under her weight. Ignorant of his plight Lily Prickla sobbed freely into his chest-fur.

"Shush, shhhhhh, calm now." Threeclaw, who had expected such an outburst, gently patted the hedgehog's shoulder until she released the squirrel and threw herself into him. Having not expected such a turn of events he slipped and fell back into the chair. "There, there." He wheezed, having been winded on impact.

"Was it something I said?" The Recorder asked, standing on tip-paw to see past his papers.

"She's very sensitive." Matiya explained for the benefit of everybeast present, most of whom were staring at their feetpaws in the kind of awkward guilt one often felt around a sobbing creature.

"They wanted to come back." The old hedgehog was shaking her head so thoroughly she had knocked her glasses askew. "But I didn't want to l-leave. I thought it'd b-be d-dangerous. B-but then they left anyways." She could speak no further and once more turned to Threeclaw for comfort. The stoat grimaced from around her spiky head, but made no motion to throw her off.

"Constance, if you would be so kind as to escort Miss Prickla to her room. We have heard enough."

"Oi be thinken that some tea moight not be amizz." The Foremole added.

The big mouse nodded and very carefully helped the old hedgehog out, offering ceaseless reassurances that everything would be fine.

Abbot Martin rubbed at his forehead. Matiya's story did not contradict Roseheart's version of events, but did offer a different perspective. He did not doubt his pupil's honesty. Matiya was an honest boy by nature and didn't have enough of a way with words to spin an elegant lie.

Bella suddenly pointed a claw at the stoat. "What about the bird?"

"Bird?"

"Bird!"

"What bird?" Asked Matiya, before remembering what he'd said about sparrows. Oops...

To make matters worse, Threeclaw opened his big fat mouth. "We never dealt with any birds!" Then the lie came back to him too and he visibly stiffened.

Bella frowned. "Matiya, I am very disappointed in you. Lying is not the abbey-"

"You were strangling him!" The squirrel protested.

"What bird?" Asked Abbot Martin, confused by this detail. He did not think he could handle another plot twist...

"I was not strangli-"

"Tell that to my guts!" Threeclaw snapped. He pointed the fork at Bella.

"So he didn't save me from a bird." Matiya threw his paws into the air. "He still looked after me. He didn't have to, but he did."

"To ransom you." Threeclaw added, just when it had looked like they were about to believe him. Matiya facepawed and turned to face him.

"Who's side are you on?"

"Mine." The stoat replied, not really helping his case.

Matiya spun back to face the assembled Redwallers. "He's not a bad beast just give him a chance to-" He was going to say 'prove it' but was interrupted by Threeclaw laughing.

"Une chance? Where was all this joking while we were traveling?" Threeclaw stood up. "I do not need a chance. And I am not thinking that she would want to give it. Not am I wanting it. A bag of vittles will do and I'll be on my way. Oh, and I want le rapier back." He paused expectantly, one paw outstretched, the other on his hip, a footpaw tapping impatiently.

"You're leaving?" Matiya felt his ears droop and his tail go flat. In hindsight he should have seen this coming... But he did not want Threeclaw to leave. The stoat was funny and fun to be with and-and nobeast else would teach him how to use a sword. Yet Threeclaw was also vermin and lived life like one. A parting of ways was inevitable... But surely now was too soon? They had only arrived the other night!

"Of course I'm leaving." The stoat snapped. "I am not wanting to be here, nor am I much wanted here. You're back with your famille now which means I have done all that is needed to do." He softened slightly upon noting how sad the squirrel looked. "Still... I have grown fond of you. I'll be in Mossflower somewhere my copain. Perhaps one day we shall cross paths again." He threw his arms open, apparently offering a hug and awkwardly Matiya returned it. "Perhaps some day we might cross swords again." He whispered, so only the squirrel could hear. Before Matiya could think of any kind of reply Threeclaw had shoved him off none-too-lightly. "Well? Where is my sword?"

"I'm afraid we can't let you leave." Abbot Martin replied.

"What?" The stoat was startled.

"You mean it?" Matiya, delighted.

"Excuse moi, but why?" Threeclaw demanded through gritted teeth.

"Well you see... Some of our children are not accounted for and all thing considered, it is plausible that some members of your crew are still in possession of them."

"So I'm a bargaining chip!?" The stoat jabbed his fork in the old mouse's direction. "You're going to sell me-"

"Don't think of it like that." The abbot protested, his paws flailing. "And we shan't keep you very long. I am sure that you have, ahem, very important duties to attend to and are eager to return to your erm- people. But as a measure of self-assurance-"

Threeclaw's paws tightened viciously around the fork. With a light, infuriated hiss the stoat threw it upon the ground and sat fuming, his arms crossed over his chest. Steam seemed to billow from his redder-than-usual face and Matiya did not recall ever seeing him so angry. It was frightening but the squirrel was not frightened. They were friends... Threeclaw would never hurt him.

"Held against your will! Ha! Now there's some justice!" The Log-a-log declared, slapping his belly.

Threeclaw opened and closed his mouth, biting back all the foreign foul words in his arsenal. The albino shut his eyes and took a deep breath.

"So I am being your guest?"

"Precisely." Abbot Martin replied.

Matiya punched the stoat lightly on the shoulder. "An eye for an eye, tooth for a tooth, eh?"

Threeclaw shook his head but could not suppress a smirk. "You have spent far too much time around vermin. Now you even play as dirty as we do. I am not supposing I have much of a choice?"

"You don't." Bella replied, cracking a knuckle.

Threeclaw deflated. "Then we are... Where we are..."


	55. Cracks In The Wall, A Lost Kite

**A/N: Slightly truncated chapter this time around. It's still rather long of course but I had to split it in half. Not because of word length but because it's already been a bit over two weeks and I don't know when I'll get the chance to update again. I am going on a brief business trip so I shall be occupied. So yeah there should be one more Salamandastron chapter in Book II after this instead of this being the final one.**

 **Geez guys... So many reviews to respond to here... XD You may skip to the end of the bold if you prefer .**

 **AlexFalTalon: Matiya and Threeclaw are one of my favourite duos both in concept and in writing (Threeclaw's accent is just fun to play around with). As for being a dueling teacher... We shall see how things are in Redwall soon. But not until I start Book III.**

 **Abrahem: Correction fifteen, Klis is fifteen. My mistake. Notes got mixed up. But he mentions he was a babe in Marik's horde. Although I never really settled on ages. Bork for example can be both older and younger and it wouldn't make much of a difference. I even lampshaded this back when Fret and Momchillo both shout that they're the older one.**

 **I'm gonna tip-paw past the lack of sunshine and rainbows, we shall see how Threeclaw in Redwall plays out. Later on...**

 **Yeah, I love writing dream sequences. Honestly this one is probably one of my personal favourites. His guilt is speaking to him through the 'fat Fret' why he's fat is because that scene was originally taken from one idea I had of Fret ending up a kind of spoiled warlord (a bit like Bork when we first meet him but without the massiveness).**

 **I'm technically not an adult so military service is a ways off- furthermore I don't live in Switzerland which means that such legalities don't apply.**

 **Sebias: Threeclaw and the Honest Bunch have kidnapped people before with no such blown-out reactions on the part of everynever involved. He doesn't see any wrong because from his point of view he didn't do anything wrong. Glad you found the trial funny it was kind of supposed to be.**

 **Abrahem: Yeah I think now that that line applies to Roseheart although I do think Hawthorn was meant to have a younger sister... It's retconned now of course but I'm pretty sure before that I just plain forgot XD**

 **Hmmm, Matiya's siblings. Well I don't think they're in Redwall at the moment (and I think I once said that Matiya was the youngest sibling... Oopsie? Well I've worked around a way that both can be true simultaneously. I'm not sure when it'll come to fruit though but it'll make sense.**

 **Interspecies relations are very much a thing- to the point that animals that can't breed in real life do so in the Redwall-verse. Yeah Catch the Bulrush off the top of my head is either the game where they're hugging and kissing instead of 'tagging' or it's where they have to grab each other's tails (in a way both less and more flirty...)**

 **Fret was lying to get Sick-Eyes, Sharpfur and Greyclaw to leave so that he could do his rescuing... We all know how that went down though...**

 **We are near the end but... Not yet. Very little plot to write but quite a bit more traveling and relationship stuff and the villain invasion and so on...**

 **To my knowledge Chickenhound is an only child.**

 **About villains coming and going- I kind of agree, but I also feel like that's a huge part of why I like Redwall. It's very likely your favourite vermin are going to die so you keep rooting for their survival until they are unexpectedly killed off- bit like Game of Thrones bit like the Walking Dead.**

 **I have a Discord account- the info is on my profile. That's generally my main form of communication with 'internet folk'.**

 **Mostly taught myself to draw. I mean I had a few art classes here and there- but they did very little for my 'skill' with anthropomorphic animals. That's the first one I drew funnily enough.**

 **Not to get all conspiracy but NASA did fake some moon landings so I'm taking anything I hear with a grain of salt. Particularly in the case of space because that's really not going to change anything about me/things I care about (that sounds selfish, but realistically speaking I'll never go to space so nothing to worry about for me).**

 **All deviantart drawings are 'concepts'. I'm still practicing with fabrics and stuff- doesn't help that most animated films (which I over-analyze and tgerefthe learn to draw from) don't feature habits.**

 **RIP Quasimodo.**

 **I'll try and put a 'group photo' if you will. Not sure which scene though (there are... Quite a lot of scenes, aren't they?"**

 **Sebias: Hmmm... Wolverines Vs wolves...? Although that conflict might be better for a sequel...**

 **SJW, I'd just like to point out that the plot is driven by the actions and emotions of animals- not men ;) Thank you Abrahem (and One-eye I think) for leaping so swiftly in my defense. I didn't delete any comments and until recently never had cause to. But please be respectful to my readers and friends. If you have genuine greivances please provide them in a respectful, polite and orderly way.**

 **If you continue to insult my readership (and me, but mostly my readership) I will simply stop your reviews from seeing the light of day. Thank you for your points, I did not realize I was doing such an awful job. I honestly didn't think I was doing anything wrong (like geez, this is a fanfic for a kids book series... Give me a break XD) As a disclaimer Abrahem is a separate identity to me. Oh and none of this chapter was altered by your reviews. I have a plot and I'm sticking to it. The suggestions I receive are welcome and if they fit nicely into what I have planned, I add them. If not then what can I do? If I edit any chapters I will let you all know, although I don't see myself doing that.**

 **Phew, now for the chapter.**

It did not take him long to find Sharpfur, all he had to do was follow the trail of startled hares and slammed doors. He came out into a small garden on the mountain, where Sharpfur sat, glaring at the ocean. All around the little weasel there seemed to be an air of rage and anger, barely hidden below a turmoil of emotion.

"Sharpfur?" The hedgehog began carefully. True to his name, the weasel was a prickly fellow. And of course, under the circumstances… more likely to lash out.

"Humph?"

This Grollo took to mean 'what do ye want?' and so, permission for conversation having been granted, sat down besides the weasel. "I'm sorry we came here." He started, rubbing at his wrists.

"Sure ye are."

"You were right, it was a bad idea."

"Course I was, course it was. I said so, didn't I?"

"We might have even reached Redwall by now if we'd listened to you." That was unlikely; they had arrived barely an hour ago.

"Yer gonna say 'but' aren't ye?"

"Bu- er- although… under the circumstances…"

"Save yer breath hedgepig. Ye got no reason not te be happy here." Sharpfur turned to him. "And even if ye do, ye've got home te look forwards to. I don't have that opp-opp- operation? No! Uni- uni- unity-"

"Opportunity?" Grollo offered.

Sharpfur growled. "I was about te say that." The weasel stood up and began pacing. "Anyhow nothin' ye say now changes the fact that ye manipulated me into comin' here. Don't deny it! I may wear spectacles but I ain't blind." He kicked an innocent pebble with enough ferocity to kill a badger. "Stop for directions ye said. Only a minute ye said. An' now… now… but it's not yer fault. No, not yer fault at all. I can't even blame ye thinkin' about yerself. I do it all the time, don't I? No. No. This, this is Greyclaw's fault."

"Right…" Grollo coughed awkwardly. It was nice to know he was in the clear, but shifting Sharpfur's rage onto the rat hardly seemed fair. He hadn't wanted to say it in front of everybeast but said so-called rat _did_ look like Constance. "How?"

"It just is!" Sharpfur snapped, then he took a deep seathing breath. "Everythin' I ever knew about him is a lie! He's a mouse! A damned mouse! That would have been nice te know growin' up! I did everything with him! We shared a room, an arm chair- I even let him use my dirk! Hellgates we shared a cot!"

Grollo did not get the opportunity to speak, both because Sharpfur was not intent on sharing the dialogue and because he had no idea what he was supposed to say.

"But apparently, the rat I used te go swimmin' with- even though I hate water!- isn't a rat!"

"But what difference does it make?"

"STOP ASKING STUPID QUESTIONS, IT MAKES A HUGE DIFFERENCE!" Sharpfur was red in the face from shouting, and then, just when it looked like his inner rage would boil over, he shrunk. "He was my brother and he's not the same anymore. Nothing's the same anymore! Ma and Pa are dead and I'm yer prisoner and Greyclaw isn't _Greyclaw_! The rest are skeletons and I'm wearing spectacles and… and… and- gah!" The fury returned and he paced around faster than before, almost feverishly. "Not a mouse. Not a mouse. Not a mouse. He. Is. Not. A. _Mouse_!" Then again he stopped and shrunk. "He can't be."

"He's not." Grollo said, seizing his moment. Manipulation had gotten him this far, perhaps a bit more wouldn't hurt. Besides, it was what Sharpfur wanted to hear. "I didn't want to say it in front of the Badgerlord, but he looks nothing like Constance. Very different. Different teeth, different face, different eyes even." He shook his head dramatically. "He doesn't look a thing like her."

Sharpfur was frowning at him. "I can't tell if yer serious or not?"

"Why would I joke about something like this? Constance is Fret's mother." He looked around and leaned in conspiratorially, so that the weasel's ear inclined towards him. "But this is between me and you. Don't tell anybeast, okay?"

Sharpfur remained skeptical. "Won't everybeast find out when we get te yer abbey and they see two very different lookin' mice next te each other?"

Grollo waved away the worry. "We'll deal with the fallout at Redwall." That wasn't even a lie. He'd have quite a lot on his paws when Sharpfur saw two very similar looking mice next to each other. Even moreso if Constance treated the supposed rat the way she treated Fret… somehow he doubted Sharpfur would take a squeeze-the-life-out-of-you hug with a plethora of kisses lightly… but that was a problem for another time.

"So… Greyclaw is a rat?"

"Absolutely. No doubt about it."

"But I can't tell him. So… I should act like he's a mouse…"

"Yeah. Just pretend."

Sharpfur grinned. "Easy peasy lemon squeezy! Ha! The look on everybeast's face when they realise he's a rat! Ha! The look on his face when common sense gets handed te him. An' then I'll say 'I told ye so!' Hehehe! Perfect! This is perfect! And best of all I get Greyclaw back!" With a newfound spring in his step, Sharpfur turned away, leaving Grollo to worry about the look on his face when they got to Redwall.

Barely a moment later, the weasel poked his head round the door, scowling. "Nice try hedgepig but I ain't buyin' it. Pity I'm not as stupid as ye think I am, eh?" Then without another word the weasel slunk away.

Or not...

"Sharpfur wait! Sharpfur!"

The weasel had not gone far and was wrestling with a door. Try as he might he could not push it open.

"Save yer breath! I've had it with ye an' the mousemaid! Actin' like we're all friends but ye don't respect me an' all ye do is trick me anyways and-"

"For the last time." Hawthorn said, pushing open the door from the other side and thus, joining the two. "I. Am. A. Vole. We are not the same as mice."

"Well ye look like a mouse, sorry te break it te ye princess. Now if ye'll excuse me I'll go pace in rage somewhere _alone!_ "

Hawthorn did not let him and the two glared at each other, nose to nose.

"I'm sorry you have to stay here." The vole began calmly. "But that can't be the only reason you're angry. You were fine with us, even if we're not rats, but for some reason you're angry at Greyclaw for being a mouse."

Sharpfur smiled patronisingly. "Yer such a clever little snowflake. Now let me go."

He made to dart past her, but once more she stepped between him and the door. "You are clearly avoiding the problem. It's not Salamandastron and it can't be Greyclaw. So tell us, what's wrong?"

"No!"

"Yes!"

"No!"

"Yes!"

"No!"

"Yes!"

 _"This!"_

"Yes- wait, pardon?"

The weasel waved his paws in the air. "This! All of this is wrong! Me! I am wrong! I am-" His paws went from flailing frantically to pulling at his ears. To their surprise, he whimpered. "I don't know what I am anymore."

Sharpfur paced around the small patch of space between Grollo and Hawthorn. "Greyclaw's me brother. Mouse or not. But what is me? My parents are dead. My crew are dead. An-and- I'm not the same! I'm wearing spectacles! I'm polite! I-I-I- Greyclaw hasn't changed one bit. He looks exactly the same but- I-I can't even recognize myself!" He growled and shook his head. "Ye won't understand."

Grollo didn't. That much was obvious from his o-shaped mouth. And made clearer by his answer. "Well my dad talked to me about this thing called puberty once and-" One look at Hawthorn's 'you are such an idiot sometimes' and Sharpfur's 'ye're the dumbest hedgepig in existence' faces made him shut up.

"I get it." Said Hawthorn turning to Sharpfur.

The weasel gave a skeptical smirk despite himself and crossed his paws over his chest. Nobeast could possibly guess the complexities of his mind. "Sure ye do. Go on, oh wise and perfect princess."

"Your concept of identity has been shaken."

"Me what of what?"

"I didn't understand that either." Grollo said, scratching at his chin. Hawthorn gave him a look and the hedgehog was silent. The vole went on.

"Creatures are built out of the things around them. Before we… crossed paths… you had an excellent idea of who you were. You were Sharpfur. You had a family and home to call yours and you were a wannabe thug."

"Actually I still am a thug."

Hawthorn ignored him and continued. "But then you had nothing. It's like… like… like a kite! As long as somebeast is holding the rope the kite can drift and flutter all it likes but it stays in place. When there's no rope the kite is lost and blows away in the wind until it snags onto a-"

"Yer point?" Sharpfur asked, giving a wide fake yawn.

"You are so frustrating! The reason you're angry is because you don't want to change! You want to go back to the way things ware but you know you can't because it doesn't exist anymore. You were fine before because you could live with that, but then you met Greyclaw and now you're reminded of why is it you wanted to go home, thus causing emotional turmoil within yourself!"

Sharpfur frowned. "Not the words I'd have used to be honest."

Hawthorn smacked her paw against her face and took a deep breath. "Alright. I'm done trying to explain your own issues to you."

Sharpfur 'harrumphed' loudly. "Good. Now if ye'll excuse me I've got stuff te do."

* * *

Victoria gave the dummies no mercy. Her sword was a blur of wood that beat at the bags of sand so viciously, that everybeast in sight had given her at least three feet of space.

Angus and Andrew sat upon the rocks, hard-faced and angry, a mockery of the Skipper's cold rage.

Jack and the other hares were doing drills a few feet away, lead by the fat Junior Corporal who seemed determined to avoid any and all conflict… by ignoring it.

Unfortunately, conflict was hard to avoid…

Greyclaw, despite the insurmountable fear holding him, waddled over to Victoria, awkward smile and wooden sword at the ready. She had offered to train him after all, and for once he was eager for the distraction.

He stopped dead in his tracks after she beheaded one of the sandbags.

But it was too late to back away, she had spotted and was glaring at him.

"H-hey." He began, swallowing heavily.

"Hello." Came her calm, clipped, terrifying voice.

"So er- what am I supposed to do today?" He swung the sword around to give him something to do and alleviate some of the awkwardness… only for the wooden weapon to go flying out of his paw. He made to catch it, tripped and fell on his face.

Victoria caught it with her tail and turned back to the rat, who tried his best to grin up at her from around a mouthful of sand.

"You can start by putting this useful training equipment back in the armoury. We wouldn't want you breaking somebeast's hard work and effort."

"Right." He agreed, pushing himself to his feetpaws and accepting the wooden blade rammed into his stomach. "And then do we try slings?"

"I'm not giving you a weapon rat."

"Jogging?" He asked hopefully.

"No!" His face fell. "No! No! No! You got that Berty? Or should I say Grey Claw?"

The rat found nothing better to stare at then his footpaws. "You can call me whatever you like… I don't mind…" Of course he didn't mind. How could he mind? He didn't know.

"How about liar? Or would you prefer vermin? Rat? Seascum? Cannibal?"

"I'm not a cannibal." The rat muttered, hurt and aghast, twisting the wooden sword in his grip.

"I don't care!" She snapped, jabbing him hard in the stomach. It still hurt, despite his layers of flabby padding. "You're not my friend either."

"B-b-but-" He was crying, of course he was crying, he was oversensitive and her words hurt.

"But what? You came here saying you were somebeast else-"

"Actually." Jack-is-Lucky said, scowling _. "I_ said he was somebeast else."

"Oh I'm angry with you too." She said fiercely. "And Tibbers the little runt. But at least you two don't expect everything to go back to normal after lying to everybeast here for several weeks."

"And if I had told you the bally truth it wouldn't have made a difference." Jack snapped, paws crossed resolutely over his chest. "Because what I said was the truth. You heard the Badgerlord. He's a mouse. End of story. Wot."

"So what?" Angus came over too now, and joined the argument. "He still lied through his buckteeth. And even if-"

"Big if." Added his twin.

"He is a mouse. He was raised by vermin- and therefore is vermin."

Jack opened and closed his mouth, unable to counter this point. "The Junior Corporal agrees with me." He said suddenly, then turned and shouted at the Corporal. "You agree with me right, wot?

The fat young hare turned and shrunk under the combined strength of their glares. "Errrmm… I don't have an opinion."

"Yes you do!" The four angry beasts said in unison.

The Junior Corporal went red, opened and closed his mouth, then let his gaze harden. "When I say I don't have a bally opinion it means I don't have a bally opinion!"

"So you're not mad at me?" Greyclaw asked with a hopeful smile- one that was almost painfully forced.

"W-well I'm not very mad."

The rat's face fell and turned back to his feetpaws.

"I'm not not mad. And I'm not especially, particularly, obstinately o-or I mean, I'm not that mad, wot. I mean, really. A corporal of the Long Patrol does not under any and all circumstances, ever j-judge beasts. That's the sergeant's job wot. F-furthermore, Berty has-"

"Save your breath." Tibbers interrupted, then he went on, calmer. "We get it, we lied. Sorry, but if we'd told the truth… well… how were we supposed to know the Badgerlord was going to be merciful?"

"Mercy? This is about mercy now, is it?" The fact that Tibbers was not cowed as she marched up to him was a great show of bravery indeed. Victoria was not exactly big, but even she overtopped him. And she was holding a sword. "And when have vermin ever been merciful?"

"B-but I never did anything bad!" Greyclaw garbled, sounding rather like a dying frog. "I lied, I stole, b-but I never killed anybeast. I didn't kill your parents!"

The wooden sword spun round and caught the fat rat hard on the stomach. Greyclaw, winded, fell over and the sword came down again, this time over an eye.

"Leave him be!" Shouted Tibbers, barging the mouse and getting his own black eye in turn. Jack growled and kicked the mouse full in the face. He, in turn, was restrained by the Junior Corporal.

"Order Jack! Order! Peace! Tranquility!"

"I AM BEING TRANQUIL!" The hare replied, thrashing wildly around to get at Victoria. The mouse was getting up now, her face filled with rage, and in her eyes Jack could see a faint hint of red.

Angus and Andrew must have noticed too, for they stepped between the mouse and Greyclaw's softly sobbing form. "Easy Vicky."

"We're angry too."

"But punching isn't gonna h-oof!"

The twin who had been speaking bent over after Victoria punched him.

Tibbers was on his feetpaws and picking up the wooden sword, some of the other hares were sprinting over now, but Victoria did not seem to care and-

"OI!" The Skipper's voice boomed as the large otter came striding in amidst the chaos. That seemed to bring Victoria back to her senses. The mouse spat upon the sand and stomped away, ignoring the Skipper entirely. "What was that?" Asked the otter chief, and all at once everybeast tried to explain.

"She punched me chief! Right in my windbag!" Andrew was saying.

"Nothing short of bally chaos sah." Added the Junior Corporal.

"Got my eye as well." Tibbers provided, dabbing at it.

"The rat started it really. Well. The mouserat-" Angus chimed in.

"Here we go again." Jack pulled up his sleeves, but before he could unleash justice upon the otter's face, the Skipper spoke.

"Somebeast take the shrew up to the infirmary. Make sure the eye's fine. Skip-Gre- Berty- gah, him as well. And if I catch you fighting again I just might thrash the lot of you. Any problems you have, bring to your elders, is that understood?"

There was a rather quiet chorus of 'yes sirs' followed by Jack lifting Tibbers and dragging Greyclaw away in the direction of the infirmary.

"Not right in the brainbox, that one, wot. Positively filled with violence. Why I bet there's a whole tree up her tail! Don't worry mates, she'll get what she deserves. I'll tattle my tail off to the Badgerlord himself if I have to!"

"Don't." Greyclaw said, shaking his head, and beginning to walk besides the hare. "Just don't. She's right. I lied." The rat sneezed violently into his wrist fur. "I should have just told the whole truth from the start."

"We didn't _know_ the whole truth from the start." Tibbers reminded, him as Jack put him down. The shrew reached up on tip-paw to put a comforting paw on Greyclaw's shoulder.. "And if you had she'd have just been like this all along. She doesn't hate you. She hates vermin."

"Imagine if she had gone to Redwall and gotten kidnapped instead of me." All three shuddered at Jack's words.

"Angus and Andrew are angry too." Greyclaw pointed out. "And Sharpfur wasn't pleased either."

"The twins are a pair of dunderheads." Jack-is-Lucky said with a roll of his eyes. He too placed a paw on Greyclaw's shoulder. "And I'm sure you and your weasel will sort things out."

"Yeah." Tibbers nodded his head in agreement. "If he's half as attached to you as you are to him than you'll be best mates by morning!"

"Isn't best mate kind of a step down from brother?"

Neither hare nor shrew knew how to respond to that.

* * *

To say that dinner that evening was an awkward affair was the understatement of the Spring. No questions were raised about the black eyes in Tibbers' and Greyclaw's possession, mostly because nobeast did any talking. Hawthorn kept searching for Sharpfur amongst the crowd but could find no trace of the little weasel. Victoria sat brooding coldly over her tea and biscuits. The Badgerlord had given her a stern talking to but even Angus and Andrew gave her a wide berth of space. Grollo was the only beast who seemed to be eating, and had no less than four biscuits crammed into his mouth. Either to stop himself from saying something stupid or because he was, as always, hungry.

It was made even more awkward by the fact that all the other hares and otters were enjoying their usual eccentricities.

This all came to an end when from the crowd of hares, many of whom were drawn to the strange sight, came Sharpfur.

Sharpfur looked… well... Grollo nearly choked. And probably would have had Jack not thumped him hard on the back.

Bespectacled and wearing the uniform of a hare, complete with several cadet badges he looked rather like a bug-eyed beast in a blanket. The comparative largeness of the jacket and glasses only seemed to emphasize how small he really was.

"Greetings and salutations woodlanders of Salamanderastron!" He declared, over the sounds of Jack yelling in pain, hopping onto the bench between a wide-eyed Greyclaw and an equally wide-eyed Tibbers.

The weasel nearly fell over from the weight of the jacket dragging him down, but managed to maintain balance. The ends of his borrowed uniform hung over the bench like a pair of folded wings. "We got off on the wrong footpaw. In part that was my fault. I wish to make amends and therefore offer my sincerest apologies. So, clean slate and all that. Who wants to be friends?" Sharpfur had spent the majority of the afternoon rehearsing his grand entrance, by which he would integrate himself into the Salamandastron community. Frankly he did not want to be friends with anybeast present, save and except for Greyclaw. In truth he was only doing this for the rat that was his brother and in part for Grollo and Hawthorn… not that he would ever admit to it.

"What are you wearing?" Greyclaw asked, staring up and down at the much-too-large uniform.

"This is called a jacket, I heard, my fine rodent friend. Standard Long Patrol stuff ye know. Some cadet lent it te me."

"You mean you stole it." Victoria muttered, loud enough to be heard.

Momentarily Sharpfur glared, but once more he regained his composure and patted down his chest fur. He had to do this for Greyclaw. Grey Claw the mouse. He'd been living with a woodlander his whole life apparently, surely he could tolerate a few more. And unless by some miracle everybeast present was struck by lightning his whole future was destined to be filled with woodlanders. So the weasel cleared his throat and pretended not to have heard.

"Ye might have also noticed that upon my entrance I was followed swiftly by the soft fragrance of cherry blossoms. This is because I washed." He forced himself to grin, the better to show off his gleaming white fangs. "I also brush me teeth and own me own fangbrush." From one jacket pocket Sharpfur extracted a toothbrush which he waved around the table for emphasis.

"That's…" Started Tibbers. "Good to know…"

"It is, isn't it?" Sharpfur sat down and pulled the shrew in closer. "Say little guy, I never did catch yer name."

Of course it was hypocritical of Sharpfur to call anybeast 'little' but he didn't have many beasts to pick on in matters of height. Naturally he took the opportunities given to him. "I-er go by Tibbers."

"Pleased te make yer acquaintance!"

They shook paws, or rather, Sharpfur snatched the shrew's and shook it vigorously. He let go abruptly and went back to facing the rest of them. "I may still be Sharpfur to ye, but in light of my new identity as a woodlander I would prefer to go by Softfur. Sounds less sharp."

"Right." Said Hawthorn, blinking.

"Confounded quills!" Jack-is-Lucky winced as Grollo pulled out one of said quills.

"So... You're a woodlander too?" Greyclaw was all sorts of confused. And momentarily worried. It must have taken a great deal of damage to the head to turn Sharpfur into… Softfur. "Did the Junior Corporal sit on you?"

"Who's she?" Sharpfur asked in reply. Then he shrugged. "Yer my only family left Grey. An' if yer a woodlander then I have to be too. Besides, ye really think Redwall Abbey'll let us stay if we go around actin' like thugs?" The weasel wrinkled his nose in disgust, despite the fact that he wanted nothing more than to be a thug again.

"B-b-but Redwall's haunted!" Greyclaw stammered. He had not considered leaving for the abbey. The rat had gotten used to life at Salamandastron. The Badgerlord was very nice, the Skipper too and Victoria as well… although that had been before the truth 'set him free'.

"So? What's a ghost gonna do? Don't act like vermin and it can't kill ye." Which was a shame because he had loved being a vermin. But vermin were not welcome anywhere. He had to become a woodlander…

"And how are you going to manage that? Aren't you all addicted to stealing?" Victoria asked, her voice filled with sarcastic interest.

Once more Sharpfur glared but flattened his chest fur. "I haven't stolen anything in seasons." This was not strictly true and he had loved the rush of getting away with somebeast else's property… but that had been a different time, the memory of which made his heart ache.

"You kidnapped Jack." Victoria yawned. "You stabbed Tibbers-"

"Here we go again." Tibbers growled. He slammed his little paws onto the table in a show of aggression that scared nobeast.

"Oh we've never stopped going." Victoria snapped. "But of course you'd side with them."

"And what's that supposed to mean?" Tibbers demanded.

"Just that shrews have a history of acting like vermin." She frowned in Hawthorn's direction. "Voles too."

Grollo tore a quill free of Jack's paw with unnecessary brutality and pointed it at the fierce mouse. "You leave her out of this."

"Wasn't there a hedgehog that went around enslaving children?"

Before Grollo could reply, Sharpfur had slammed a cookie into his open mouth.

"Now, now. Let's keep things… civilized. Violence ain't gonna help anybeast."

"Nobeast ask your opinion, weasel." Angus muttered.

This time Sharpfur did not feign deafness. "Well I gave it anyways so there. Now shut yet pie hole an' let me eat."

The weasel sat down heavily, the hare clothing flapping around him like a magician's cloak. Greyclaw was worth it. Greyclaw's friendship was worth all the misery and pain trying to fit in would bring.

The biscuits were too hard for his painfully-polished teeth, the tea too hot and too bitter and everything else not to his liking.

"Can ye pass the sweet-stuff?" Sharpfur said suddenly, pointing at a small platter of sugar cubes. He was addressing the otter twins, who sat directly behind it. The pair shared a look and the glimmer of mischief was evident in their eyes. Sharpfur noticed of course, he'd had three older siblings after all…

"You don't want that in your tea!" Angus said, shaking his head.

"This!" Andrew passed him a wooden bottle of pepper. "Now this'll sweeten up anything."

The weasel raised a skeptical eyebrow. "Thank ye." Sharpfur said politely- yet the first thing he did upon recieving the bottle, was turn it over to find the carved letters. For a long while he stared at the carvings, his eyes narrowed in concentration. Finally he slammed it onto the table with a growl. "Pepper! Pepper for my tea, eh? Yer a funny otter! Very funny!"

"I-it's not pepper." Angus tried to say.

"I can read ye nitwit!" Sharpfur growled again and hurled the bottle of pepper at the offending otter. "Betcha didn't see that coming!"

Andrew hadn't seen the pepper coming either.

"Yes well… most vermin are uncivilised creatures of evil."

Sharpfur glared at her, and this time did not bother flattening his raised and enraged fur. "Well at least I'm tryin' te get along!"

"You may dress like us." Victoria spat. "But you know it's only an act."

The truth of her words angered Sharpfur more than the words themselves.

The mouse went on, not at all scared of his gnashing fangs. "The last weasel in Salamandastron poisoned the food supply and tried to open the gates for his warlord father."

"And how long ago was that?" Jack-is-Lucky demanded. "None of us were born then. My grandparents weren't even born then! Wot!"

"Vermin don't change." The mouse replied coolly, her hard gaze fixed on Sharpfur. "Even if they wear magnifying glasses."

"They're for readin' addlebrain!" Sharpfur snapped.

"I didn't know you could read." Greyclaw said, intending it as a sort of compliment. A way to get Sharpfur to calm down.

"And I didn't know ye were a mouse." Sharpfur snapped again, then stabbed his tea with a fork and began stirring vigorously.

"I didn't know either!" Grey Claw protested, wincing from the force of Victoria's 'humph'.

If he hadn't just humiliated himself by trying to fit in with the woodlanders, Sharpfur could have contained his anger. But he'd had bad day afrer bad day and all his anger was free now and Grey Claw just happened to be directly in line of fire.

"And neither did I! Neither did Ma! Neither did Pa! Or Threeclaw! Neither did anybeast, but that's what ye are! Apparently!"

There was a long pause, in which Greyclaw bit his lip and the fur along Sharpfur's back rose and fell in time to the weasel's infuriated breathing.

"D-does it matter? I-I'm still the same beast, aren't I?"

"No." Said Sharpfur coldly, pushing himself off the bench. "Ye ain't. And neither am I! So stop expectin' everythin' te go back the way it was! Coz Ma and Pa are dead, our crew is dead and ye and I ain't brothers anymore because everything's different!"

It was impossible to say whether or not the rat's heart shattered or not, but it certainly looked like it had.

Sharpfur regretted his words of course, almost instantly, he bit his tongue and flattened his ears but it was too late. Greyclaw waddled away rather swiftly and left the weasel guilty.

"Grey! Come back I… I…" 'Need you' was what he wanted to say, but too many beasts were looking for him to say it. His guilt turned to anger and hissing like a snake, he hurled an innocent tea cup at Andrew. "Now look what ye made me do! Ye son of a-"

"Sharpfur stop." Hawthorn swallowed. "You're not helping."

And to her surprise the weasel did stop. She had expected anger. Arguments. Rage.

But he did not throw another thing, and in silence, turned and went the other way.

Tibbers was momentarily torn between going to comfort the rat and berating Victoria for her harshness. Jack stood up and carried the shrew out before he could make his mind up.

Wordlessly, Hawthorn grabbed Grollo by the arm and dragged him in the wake of Sharpfur.


	56. A Bat Start To The Day

**A/N: Abrahem, I use another one of you reccomendations later in this chapter soooo... I don't have anything against the French. I speak French. Am legally Swiss, ie, a neighbour of France. RIP Quasimodo was just my knee-jerk reaction because I... thought the Notre Dame thing was a joke... (don't judge me okay, I live under a rock XD) I also think there was a slaver hedgehog- can't remember where but i think there was one... And I don't really care all that much for deep space. So no opinion on black holes- although I am a little miffed that the USA wins the space race by landing on the moon first... when the USSR did everything else first... Not a political opinion just a bit of 'really'?**

 **Discord isn't too hard to use. Although I'm not exactly the er- most frequent users of it.**

 **Fret the Spoilt Warlord was the product of Clogg spoiling him and his best friend (Bork) being a glutton.**

 **Glad you found the drawing cute. It was meant to be.**

 **Also Abrahem, if you were to join (DEWIT!) I would be happy to read anything you write.**

 **Lord demon: I will get to it before the fic is done, never fear! (But gods the Redwall Forum takes so much time)**

 **Also a shout-out to the Redwall Readership Restorers Forum on this website started by Waycaster.**

 **Oh and this might be** **my submission to the Redwall Abbey Community Forum Fanfiction Competition :D I'm not sure how well the chapter works on it's own buuuuut *shrugs* So I may start black and White Drabbles a bit prematurely for it... Depends**

 **Also big (public) thank you to keldor, he's helped quite a bit with my plottings and his very insightful reviews (we discussed moon landings... I really don't think your reviews are off-topic XD) are a joy to read.**

 **I know a bunch of you reviewed as well, but it's been two weeks and must I say much else other than thank you for reviewing! We shall return to Salamandastron in due course of time. Yes Greyclaw is poor but when do I *not* make my characters suffer?**

"Ye ge' one shot. That's it. I ain't cleanin' up after ye an' if ye loose a spear I'll spank ye. Makes sense?" Fret did not doubt that Snakeskin would indeed hit them. The stoat had, after all, been lovingly caressing his 'old beau'ies' only moments before.

The treck south had taken them from hard to differentiate tunnels to... _more_ hard to differentiate tunnels. Ones that were further south... according to Snakeskin anyways. Fret had no doubt whatsoever that they were lost. No matter how much Snakeskin assured him that he ' _knew these tunnels like the back of me paw'_ Fret would never forget that Snakeskin was the same stoat that had once engaged him in a very long and boring debate about _'which side of the paw actually is the back of i'?'_

Presently the trio were in what resembled a nursery. A cot of bones lay abandoned in the corner. All around lay a few portraits- facing the ice. He had tried to peer at one and had received a smack for it. His ear was still sore.

Now the white-furred stoat sat in a corner, cutting at a long green line of snake scales. Momchillo was holding a pair of old, surprisingly wooden, toy javelins and facing a makeshift target (a pile of blankets on a stool) with a confident smirk. They had been sitting (or in Fret's case, lying) in comfortable silence after the day's long voyage. The tunnels had shifted upwards as if they were climbing a hill and more than once he'd slipped on the ice and ended up sliding down a path he'd traversed moments before, only to have to climb all the way up again. He had been enjoying the newfound silence of his very talkative companions when Momchillo had to open his big fat mouse mouth and ask about the targets.

"I only need one shot." Fret had seen the mouse throw things his whole life and remembered vividly every snowball that had ever struck him. Redwall Abbey had had no fancy targets, save for his nose. The ferret was rather less-than-pleased when Momchillo's projectile struck the target.

Snakeskin, on the other paw, was delighted. "Nice shot mouse!" He cheered, flourishing a newly-made cloak of glimmering green scales. "Ye'd make an excellen' snake 'unter if ye put yer min' te it."

Momchillo, ever the sickeningly polite, handed both javelins back to Snakeskin. "It wasn't that hard a shot." He said with a shrug. "And a real javelin would probably be heavier anyways."

"Not if it's made of bones me boy!" The stoat stood up and as quick as lightning was behind the young rodent, draping the newly-made cloak over his shoulders and pinning it securely around the mouse's neck. "Surpriiiiise! Said I'd make ye cloaks, didn' I? Like it?"

"Y-you mean, this is mine?" Momchillo balked and passed a paw through the smooth, cold scales. "I-I- I can keep it?" It was excellently made. Scales on the outside, fur on the inside, with a hood to throw over his ears if it ever got too cold. Best of all it fitted him like a glove.

Snakeskin grinned. "Every snake 'unter 'as one of 'em. An' ye killed a snake-"

"He ran from one." Fret snapped. Snakeskin was annoying. Momchillo was annoying. It shouldn't have surprised the ferret that the two took to one another like tea and tea pot. But it did and that annoyed him more.

"Beats gettin' eaten by one." The stoat replied with a smirk and a wink.

Fret could not think of any reply beyond sticking his tongue out. Quick as a flash however, Snakeskin had it between two claws.

"An' fur the recor' I made ye a cloak as well. What's the matter? Somethin' got yer tongue?" The stoat chuckled, let go and lifted the ferret onto his feetpaws. "Black seems te be yer colour."

Fret would never have admitted it, but he liked the cloak almost instantly. It was soft and warm, akin to the blankets Constance had never ceased tucking him into. No matter how tall he had grown she would always tuck him into bed, and no matter how disastrous his misadventures had been that day he would always sleep soundly. Knowing that she loved him no matter what...

Fret stared at his reflection in the ice, equal parts missing his mother and being ashamed of doing so. He'd probably never see her again... he had to get used to living without her. And tucking himself in. And ranting to himself.

His self-pity ended abruptly when Snakeskin slammed a skull over his head.

"Ta-da! It's an 'elmet!" Batting away the ferret's paws, Snakeskin adjusted it himself so that Fret's ears stuck out from the top of the helm and he could look at his own reflection from a pair of carved eye-holes.

"I look ridiculous." Fret half-complained, half-moaned as he deflated. It had been a small snake, with a head no larger than his. A pair of fangs sandwiched his muzzle and swivelling his ears was made difficult by the relative smallness of the holes.

"Ye look like bait. An' that's what ye are. The mos' fillin' meal in the 'ole North." Snakeskin chuckled and flicked the ferret's nose.

"It looks good on you." Momchillo said with a wry smile.

Fret only harrumphed in reply as his head came free of the helmet with a small _pop_. The last thing he needed right now was Momchillo's brand of sarcastic wit. The mouse hadn't sounded sarcastic, but Fret knew that he was. They hadn't complimented each other in seasons and they certainly weren't going to start now.

"It was me sons. Really ye should be _'onored_ I gave it te ye." Snakeskin patted his head before strolling casually away. The stoat sat down heavily on a folded fur blanket and yawned. "Now 'o's up fur some shut-eye?"

Fret did not reply to that question. He was busy burying himself under as many of the fur-rugs as he could. Never mind that they stunk and made him itch all over. It was cold at night and he wanted to sleep. Plus it was, along with the paws determinedly pressing his ears against the top of his head, very good at blocking out the sound of his companions.

"Or shall we sing our song, mouse?"

Growing up with Momchillo, Fret knew just how horrible the mouse's singing voice was. Snakeskin, too used to dull silence, had ceaselessly encouraged the mouse's musical 'talents' and unfortunately the white furred stoat only knew one song. And even more unfortunately he'd taught it to Momchillo. And worst of all was that they sung it. Every. Single. Day. Together they started, like a pair of lonely, dying, toads.

"Waaaaaake uuuuup Maggiiiiiie IIIIIIII think I goooooot something to saaaaaaay to yoooouuu,"

Underneath the heaps of fur, Fret growled. Now he wouldn't get any sleep until all eighty seven verses were done... three times each... with all the extended vowels... Some things were worse than bathing.

* * *

 _Momchillo did not remember how the argument had started, only that he and Fret were arguing. There was nothing unusual about this. Snakeskin had left to skin some snakes and had left Fret and Momchillo to their own devices. One thing lead to another and now they did what they did best._

 _"You're a greasy-furred, crow-tailed, polecat! And that was a joke!" The mouse said with righteous indignation, but all of a sudden he did not know what Fret had said to make him say that. Something rude most likely._

 _"I am not a polecat!" The ferret hissed, but could not come up with any insults of his own._

 _"I should have guessed by the smell." Momchillo taunted, a wide grin on his face. "When was the last time you washed again? Last season was it? Before?"_

 _"You just threw soup on me!"_

 _"Seems you need a bath more than ever then, doesn't it?" As a child he'd loved reading and wit was his forte. Fret's comparative slow-mindedness could not compete with him._

 _The ferret, now covered in soup that had apparently always been there, growled. "You stink too!"_

 _"Oh, do I? And how would you know, with soup up your nose?"_

 _Fret garbled and garbled and spat out the first half of a dozen words before resigning himself to growling. But only now did Momchillo notice a wetness in his eyes that the mouse was becoming now all-too-familiar with._

 _The grin faltered and vanished as the image returned to him. The horrible sight of Fret halfway down a serpent, manifested itself before him clear as day and as tangible as clay. "I'm sorry. I shouldn't have said that."_

 _But Fret did not hear his apology. The ferret stomped ever closer, his fangs bared and his claws outstretched._

 _"I'm sorry Fret." I'm sorry, I'm sorry, I'm sorry._

 _"Well I'm not!" The ferret growled, slashing open his cheek. "You have no idea how long I've wanted to do that for!"_

 _It did not hurt nearly as much as it should have, considering how much blood was spilling. Life as a slave must have toughened him up. There had been a time where Fret lightly pushing him to the ground had set him to tears. Now though he accepted the blow with a bowed head._

 _"I'm sorry."_

 _But Fret did not stop and kicked him to the ground. The ferret coiled back on all fours, like an exceptionally dangerous spring. Without warning the ferret sprung and Momchillo only just managed to roll out of the way in time._

 _Fret bit deep into the furry blankets, his cheeks filling with the black flesh. Inexplicably he began sobbing and spat out mouthfuls of fur. "Why do you always win? Just once, I just want to succeed one time! One bloody time."_

 _Suddenly there was a shifting in the blankets, like a creature rolling over in it's sleep. To the mouse and ferret it was like a miniature earthquake. The sudden, soft, rising and falling of the, suddenly warm and flabby ground, told him that they were sitting atop somebeast. A few seconds later a pair of black eyes opened wide and cast their dim light over the terrified two._

 _Much like with the snake, their arguments were forgotten and the two clung to each other tightly. Momchillo was no longer even bleeding and his cheek had healed completely. The two shivered and shook and Fret whimpered as the furry mountain of a bear came to motion. The two were shaken off it's stomach and landed on the ice, still bound to each other in mutual terror of the massive creature before them._

 _"Never too early fur Breakfis'". The bear said in Snakeskin's accent but with a much deeper voice that shook the whole mountain with it's echoes. A paw bigger than the duo enveloped Fret and lifted him into the air._

 _"N-no." Momchillo stammered. Was he pleading?_

 _"Sweet dreams." As easily as tossing a grape, the bear tossed Fret, who had since curled up in terror, high into the air. The ferret vanished down the tremendous creature's open jaws with a tiny gulp, making barely a bulge in it's already massive throat._

 _Momchillo was frozen in horror. It all felt surreal, far too surreal for him to be sad. It was almost akin to dreaming..._

 _The bear licked it's massive chops with a tongue bigger than some carpets. "Your turn mousie." It leaned down in front of the young, frightened rodent and belched up a few piece of black and white fur in what was a small hurricane of released air. The whole place reeked of acid and somewhere in the distance Snakeskin was laughing._

 _Momchillo whimpered._

And woke up, covered in cold sweat but thankfully nowhere near a mammal bigger than a mountain. Sitting up, he made sure that Fret's tail and feetpaws still stuck out from the blankets he'd buried himself in and that those blankets were indeed not the belly of a bear.

A quick glance at Snakeskin confirmed the source of the belch, laughter and the bear's words.

"Did I wake ye?" The stoat asked from around a mouthful of dried snakeflesh. "'Ungry?" He pointed the snakeflesh at another piece of carved meat but Momchillo's attention had since drifted to the book in his other paw.

"That's Fret's!" Momchillo rubbed his eyelids to confirm that his vision was true. Indeed, the tome they had fought over upon first escaping the Northlands was there. And this time Fret was not going to stop him! The mouse squashed a small bubble of guilt as it came. It was Fret's book that much was true but the ferret himself had stolen it. How private could the contents _really_ be?

"It is, isn' it?" Snakeskin smirked and held out the closed book.

Momchillo glanced back at the blanket pile to confirm that Fret was still buried under it, and when it became clear that the ferret was not going to wake up anytime soon the mouse stretched an eager paw towards the book.

Only for Snakeskin to smack it and tuck the tome into his cloak. "Nothin' personal mouse. I wouldn' give 'im yer secrets either."

Momchillo sucked his wounded paw. Then continued. "He told _you_ about it? B-but he barely knows you! We grew up together-"

"An' ye nearly fed 'im te a snake." The white stoat shook his head. "I forced it outta 'im but if ye do the same I'll eat ye meself. Trust." He said, raising a claw towards the heavens. "'As got te be earned. Ye 'aven' earned 'is yet so I ain't tellin' no tales."

Momchillo scowled. "What's so important anyways? Fret can keep his secrets all he wants but if this is important then he's just being selfish!"

Snakeskin chuckled. "Ye really wan' te know don' ye?"

Momchillo nodded vigorously.

The stoat tore another piece of meat from the bone, chewed for an eternity, swallowed and belched. Momchillo was reminded horribly of the bear... Standing up Snakeskin tossed aside his breakfast and motioned for Momchillo to follow.

"I'll talk on the way. Jus' keep up."

Another glance in Fret's direction later and the mouse was besides him. "Okay tell me."

Snakeskin smirked and flicked his ear. "Ye ever stop an' think about yer pal? More than ye 'ave te?"

"Well... No... Actually yes." Momchillo admitted. "I mean I do sometimes. A lot recently. I- he, look." The mouse took a deep breath. "Fret and I weren't always this bitter. I mean, he was always a little bitter and I only started being bitter because we got kidnapped but we used to play together all the time. Every game you can think of too, everyday for most of our lives but all of a sudden-"

"I mean' about 'im not yer relationship drama." Snakeskin rolled his eyes dramatically. "Not everythin's about ye mousie."

"I know that." Momchillo said, a little crossly.

"So ye _do_ think of 'im?"

"Not really. I wonder why he did a few things, sure but-"

"Ye ever wonder where 'e _came_ from?" Snakeskin asked more bluntly.

This only confused the brown-ish yellow mouse further. "What do you mean _'came from'_? He's been at Redwall his whole life!"

Snakeskin flicked his ear again. "Fur somebeast so clever ye got an awfully thick skull. 'E's vermin. I take it the only vermin in yer abbey?"

Momchillo nodded, simultaneously rubbing his wounded ear.

"Ye ever wonder 'ow 'e got there?"

This gave the mouse pause. Then Momchillo shrugged. "Constance must have found him somewhere. She was his mother after all."

The stoat harrumphed skeptically. "That'd be a sigh' wouldn' it? The mouse that whelped ferrets! 'O'd ye think 'is _real_ parents are?"

And then it dawned on Momchillo. "Is that what this is about?"

Snakeskin flicked his ear again. "Yep."

Then the mouse's face became one of confusion. "But why's it such a big deal then? Everybeast knows Fret was adopted."

Snakeskin shook his head. "Ah, if only ye knew. Trust me mouse- nothin's ever that simple."

They walked on in silence for a while. Momchillo's brain was hard at work processing all the information. There wasn't much of it but his brain was doing a lot of processing. Fret's parents... But Constance had always been Fret's mother! In hindsight it was silly of him not to realize that Fret's parents were likely ferrets but... why was that important? And why had Fret, who had fought tooth and claw for the book back when their tails had been tied together, told _Snakeskin!?_

When posed this question by the now-indigant rodent (hadn't Fret been the one mistrustful of the stoat in the first place?) the stoat in question smirked. "I didn' give 'im much of a choice really. It was either tell the truth or I'd feed 'im te a snake so ye can see why 'e blabbed. What? Don' look a' me like tha'! I wasn' _really_ gonna feed 'im te anythin'. Maybe roast 'is tail a little bit, hehehe... I was jokin'!"

"Fair enough." Momchillo grunted, a familiar annoyance creeping up on him and could not bite back a growl. "When we get back-"

"Yer not gonna say anythin' coz I told 'im I wasn' gonna tell ye." Snakeskin interrupted at once. "I mean ye could tell 'im but then I'd be forced te add mouse te my soup bowl now wouldn' I?"

The mouse blinked and forced himself to squash down his anger lest it put him in (literal) hot water. Through gritted teeth he spoke. " _Fine._ I don't know anything. Let's keep it that way. But the fact that he told you-"

Snakeskin flicked his ear. "Ye gotta _earn_ 'is trust mouse. As fun as it is te 'it 'im where it 'urts, 'e's under a lot of pressure- an' I'm not talkin' about the itchy blankets."

There was always a plot twist with Fret. Always something he hadn't seen or hadn't considered and frankly it was beginning to worry him. Every time he thought he had Fret figured out the rug was pulled out from under him and a new image presented itself. One of a bad-tempered ferret slowly cracking away to reveal nothing more than a broken being barely held together by the thinnest of bandages. "Pressure from what?"

Snakeskin shrugged. "Loads of things. I bet 'e spends most of 'is day worryin' about what'll 'appen when ye get back te yer abbey. Ye both talk in yer sleep see. 'E keeps whimperin'. If it didn' break me heart te look at 'im I'd wake 'im up an' tell 'im te grow a spine an' deal with it."

Momchillo felt any remaining anger melt away as swiftly as it had come and resolved to do something nice for the ferret. Perhaps bite down on the witty retorts... and definitely not tell him about the nightmare he'd had... Perhaps a good meal might turn his frown upside down for a change...

"We're 'ere." The stoat announced, before Momchillo could decide what would make the ferret happy.

The 'here' the stoat was referring to was a tunnel indistinguishable from all the rest. At present, Snakeskin was smiling infuriatingly, as if waiting for the inevitable question to come up. When it did, his smile widened.

"'Ere is the entrance te the Upper Tunnels."

"Upper tunnels?" Momchillo repeated skeptically. "Is this some kind of joke?"

Snakeskin lifted Momchillo off the ground the way one would lift a baby. He even rocked him slightly. "Well I deba'ed leadin' ye 'ere te kill ye off nice an' quiet-like but that's no fun. I do _lurve_ the soun' of screamin'!"

"Right." Momchillo said, swallowing slightly despite himself.

"'Ere, I'll show ye." Momchillo scowled and tried to regain some form of control over the situation. He briefly attempted to pull himself out of the stoat's arm-cradle, only for Snakeskin's infuriating rocking to undo any and all progress.

"I can walk fine thaaaaaAAAAAAAA!" He was not sure how the stoat had done it but soon the two were hurtling through the air. Snakeskin laughing at the top of his lungs and Momchillo screaming at the same pitch. Despite his earlier protests on the stoat's chosen method of transportation, Momchillo was glad to have the stoat's chestfur so near at paw to cling to. He was also glad for the babying- it would have been cruelly painful to fall to his death now.

Then, as suddenly as the flying had started, it stopped, and he was flung out of the stoat's arms, bounced off a wall and hit the floor with a groan. Snakeskin was still laughing.

"'A'A'A'A'A'A'A'A'A'A! Ye should've seen yer face!"

"Not... funny..." Momchillo groaned, pushing himself off the ground. Snakeskin, still chuckling, lifted him by the armpits and placed him gently back on his feetpaws.

"' _Ilarious."_ Snakeskin corrected. "Wish Frettie were 'ere too, the look on 'is face would've been worth all the whinin'."

"He probably wouldn't have liked the landing."

"An' woul' that 'ave stopped me?" Snakeskin grinned and tickled Momchillo's sides. The mouse cringed away only to find himself lifted into the air and dropped slightly. "Besides, what yer abou' te see is worth the ride." Effortlessly he caught the young rodent, and once more cradled him.

 _It had better be._ The mouse scowled, but turned away and felt his jaw go slack.

The path they strolled along was a bridge of carved ice. Narrow but thankfully firm. Once more he was surprised to find himself grateful for the old stoat's babying. Momchillo could not see the end of the darkness around them , only that the bridge was very high up and a fall from this height was certain death. Momchillo doubted he would dare walk at this height- he'd have clung to the ice as tightly as possible until whatever business had to be done up here was finished. Then he'd drag himself down. Fret would have done the same... Or worse...

Snakeskin was whistling a tune Momchillo knew not the words too, and the sound sent strange vibrations through the air. It was eerily quiet, with nothing to hear but the strange contortions of Snakeskin's whistling, the stoat's footsteps and his own heartbeat.

There was even less he wanted to smell when in such close proximity to the stoat. And unfortunately stoat and mouse were the only scents he was familiar with. There was a third but it was distant and he didn't know it anyways. Yet Momchillo could not shake off the feeling that he was being watched.

At long last they came upon a drum and Snakeskin set him down on shaking feetpaws. All it would take was a small gust of wind to go teetering to his death. The stoat stopped whistling and picked up a large oaken drumstick. In utter silence, as if in prayer, the stoat approached it.

What followed was a horrendous cacophony of drumbeats punctuated by Snakeskin's singing voice.

"WAAAAAAKE UP MAAAAAGIE!" Momchillo winced. It was like having a fly down your ear- a very uncomfortable experience a hare of the Long Patrol had once described to him in vivid detail.

"IIIII'VE GOOOT SOMETHIN' TE SAAAY TE YEEEEEE!"

There was a high-pitched shriek and Momchillo's ear twitched at the definite sound of swooping. The mouse himself gave a high-pitched shriek when a flat-nosed, long-eared face burst out from the darkness and knocked him to the ground. The mouse continued screaming until he heard the familiar sound of Snakeskin's laughter, joined in by that of the newcomer and a thousand eyes glowing in the dark of the underground.

"Oh Snakie you old fraud, fraud, fraud! You should have said you were coming, coming, coming."

It was a bat, Momchillo realized, now that he was no longer panicking. Half of Snakeskin's height but with thrice the mass. His dark brown fur was a shaggy mane of first, dust and flecks of snow. His long, skeletal, wings, currently wrapped around the white-furred stoat, were as black as night. Exceptionally ugly by mouse standards, with a face that had either been born that way or had become as flat as it was from crashing into things. Yet, by bat standards he must have been rather handsome. He looked as strong as an ox, and wore a pair of glittering earrings on one ear.

The bat released Snakeskin, who looked glad to be alive after the lung-crushing bat's grip, and hopped over to where Momchillo was sitting up. "Who's the mouse, mouse, mouse?" With almost scary ease the bat lifted him to his feetpaws.

At least a dozen other bats had made their presence known. No longer cloaked in the shadows of the cavern they stood perched along the sides of the bridge, watching the newcomers with glee. Guests had been a rare sight in the last few... seasons...

"I'm M-momchillo sir." Said Momchillo, offering a paw. He too was subjected to a bone-crushing body grapple. In hindsight he should have realised that, lacking paws, bats were not too partial to pawshakes.

"Any pal of Snakeskin's a friend of mine, mine, mine."

The mouse would have replied, but was currently trying his hardest to keep his eyes from popping out.

"Careful! 'E's a frien' an' I don' wan' 'im squished." Snakeskin said, tapping the chief bat's shoulder.

"Sorry. Don't know my own strength, strength, strength. Besides I haven't had guests in ages, ages, ages. Not friendly ones anyway, anyway, anyway. How are the kids Snakie, Snakie, Snakie?"

The stoat stiffened slightly and glanced worriedly at Momchillo. ''They're fine."

"Good, good, good." The bat grinned and turned back to Momchillo, who had still not recovered from being crushed alive. "Apologies, I forgot my manners, manners, manners. I go by Snap, Snap, Snap."

The young mouse nodded, but was too busy staring at the suddenly-morose Snakeskin. "You okay?"

The stoat grinned, but Momchillo was becoming painfully familiar with false smiles and barely-surpressed tears. "Righ' as rain."

"You hungry, hungry, hungry? Of course you're hungry, hungry, hungry! How silly of me, me, me! Sap, Tree Fang, get over here, here, here."

"Yes father, father?"

"What is it dad, dad?"

"Oh looks it's Snakie, Snakie!"

"Hello uncle, uncle."

What their father lacked in height his daughters more than made up for. A pair of large, flying beasts as such Momchillo did not know. The otter twins had been tall, as were hares, but otters and hares were always tall. These two were freakish large by bat standards and a little terrifying for both had a single, long fang sticking out of the sides of their mouths.

"Take our guests to breakfast now, now, now! And be careful with the mouse, he's never flown before, before, before!"

"What?" Was all Momchillo could ask as a pair of talons clamped down on his arms, pinning them to the sides.

"Please tighten your belts, belts, belts." Tree Fang giggled.

Momchillo was not wearing a belt. "W-wai-WAIT!"

The bat did not listen (but must have heard with ears like that) and with a great flap of her wings was in the air and taking Momchillo with her.

The mouse was deathly silent as the bat flew him away from the bridge. In time perhaps, he'd appreciate the memory, but now it was nothing short of terrifying. She flew fast and the wind rushed past the young mouse, entirely unfamiliar with the feeling but not at all comfortable with nothing under his feetpaws.

It was not a long flight, but upon touching down Momchillo hugged the ice harder than he'd ever hugged anything before.

"Hehehehe, was the little mouse scared, scared, scared?"

"Yes. Very, very much." Momchillo said, swallowing and forcing himself to not look how far up he was.

"Don't worry, the way down is easier, easier, easier."

The mouse was beginning to sweat. What did Snakeskin want with these strange creatures?

Tree Fang must have noticed. "Don't worry, worry, worry. If you fall we'll catch you, you, you."

 _It's the falling part I'm scared of..._

Snakeskin arrived a moment later, chatting animatedly with the Bat Chief while Sap carried him with effortless ease.

"Come on inside, inside, inside." The smallest bat said, half-helping, half-lifting Momchillo to his feetpaws and giving him a gentle, albiet rough, push through a door.

Inside he found a roaring fire surrounded by a swarm of moths, a platter of worms on a table and not a single seat in sight. But then again bats perched, chairs would have been redundant.

"Snakie, Snakie, Snakie!" The Chief Bat shook his head, his grin wide and showing a pair of flashing fangs. "What brings you here friend, friend, friend? After so many seasons, seasons, seasons. And with a mouse as well, well, well! How old are you boy, boy, boy?"

Before Momchillo could reply the bat smacked his forehead hard.

"Forgive me, me, me! I forgot all about you landbeasts perching, perching, perching! Sap, Tree Fang! Help me get the chairs, chairs, chairs!"

As soon as the three were out of ear-shot Snakeskin chuckled. "Likin' yer mornin'?"

"I wish I had stayed in bed." Momchillo admitted, eyeing the bowl of squirming worms with utter disgust. "The way they talk bugs me."

"Bugs me too, but they like bugs bats do." Snakeskin shrugged. "They can' 'elp it. Some beasts are jus' the way they are. Ye can either accep' tha' or 'ate 'em fur somethin' they can' control. Nobeast likes an 'edgepig's spikes, but everybeas' likes a good 'edgepig."

Momchillo was silent while he contemplated this. As was the usual with his thoughts these days, they diverted to Fret. _Some beasts are just the way they are..._

The bats returned a moment later with chairs. Momchillo was unceremoniously dumped into one and pushed close to the table, so that his nose was uncomfortably close to the bowl of worms.

"So, what's good, good, good?" The Bat Chief began.

"Lotsa thin's. Snakes-a-plen'y an' all the mea' I could eat! The mouse an' 'is frien' showed up about a week ago, 'scaped from that idio' Kin'. Foun' em jus' in the nick of time too. The other was about te get eaten. Ye know me Snap, always the gen'lebeas'. Can' have a pair of dibbuns los' in me tunnels. 'Ad te 'elp 'em back 'ome."

"You can have some if you like, like!" Tree Fang, who had noticed Momchillo's cross-eyed stare (but evidently not the green coloration of his face) snatched up a bunch of worms in her talons and held them above the mouse's face.

"I- I-d-d r-rather not." He managed, then composed himself. "Nothing wrong with them, j-just p-personal taste."

Sap, the other bat, scooped up a talon-ful and stuffed her jaws with worms. They had been bad enough before, but oozing green slime from the sides of the large bat's mouth? Momchillo felt like he was about to be sick.

"They taste fine to me, me, me."

"Hush girls! I'm about to explain the bear problem, problem, problem."

Both went silent instantly and the Bat Chief, who went by Snap, spoke somberly. "It started a few weeks ago, ago, ago. A bear showed up at the bottom of the waterfall, fall, fall. Demanded food, food, food. We gave it some, but it kept asking for more, more, more. And when we refused to give it, it, it... I don't know how they got there, but it has some of my people, people, people... And it wants more food, food, food. Most of my bats are foraging through the tunnels, but you know there's barely anything to feed us all already..."

"That's... horrible." Momchillo started. He wanted nothing more than to help these bats in some way. The heroes of Redwall Abbey would have chased away the bear and restored peace to the tunnels... But Momchillo knew well that he was no hero. Just a child very far from home. And his dream was not the greatest of motivators...

"I'll pull up a carcass or two." Snakeskin promised. "Go' loads already anyways. 'Ey girls! 'Ow about ye show Momchillo over 'ere the river? 'E's new around 'ere so play nice." Turning back to their father the stoat said loudly. "They sure 'ave grown since I last seen 'em!" And quieter, with Momchillo now distracted by the pair of over-excited bats lifting him off, whispered to the Bat Chief. "I also 'ave far too many poun's of poison."

A meaningful look was shared between them for half a heartbeat, and then Snap smiled gratefully. "You truly are the best of friends, friends, friends."

"Come on mousie, to the river, river, river!"

Momchillo did not have much of a choice. Both bats were bigger and stronger and had him by the paws until they were outside. He shut his eyes tightly and curled his legs up until he was once again met with land.

"You can use the easy way down, down, down."

"Yes, yes! We meet you there!

"W-wait. J-just wait."

"See you at the river mousie, mousie, mousie!'' Clamping her talons over his shoulders and ignoring his loud cry of ''please just wait!' Tree Fang stuffed the mouse headfirst into a wide tunnel.

Sap gave his backside a kick and Momchillo was off, screaming down a tunnel of ice, much like the one he and Fret had found on the Honeycomb Hill. This one was far less painful however, perhaps because he didn't have anybeast tied to his tail. Yet he found it impossible to enjoy himself! He was moving at unnatural speeds into an uncertain future. For all he knew there was a pile of spikes at the bottom...

"Surprise!" Instead he found both bats who, despite his impressive momentum, caught him with ease.

"Did you like the slide, slide, slide?"

"Was it fun, fun, fun?'"

There was no trace of rudeness in their voices, which to him at least, suggested they were ignorant of his discomfort.

"It was... An experience." He said, upon being put down on the ice. Dizzy as he was, he clutched the sides of his head and stumbled about until he fell on his rump.

The sisters both laughed and helped him up. Taking him down a path at a, thankfully, normal place they soon found the river. Three mouse's wide and strangely light green in colour.

"Downriver is very big, big, big. Huge waterfall, fall, fall."

"Not big now, now, now. Ice hasn't melted yet, yet, yet."

"But in summer it's big, big, big. Too big for mousie to swim, swim, swim."

Momchillo shrugged. "I'm not much of a swimmer anyways." He tested the water with a footpaw and hastily withdrew it. As cold as ice and strangely sticky. He doubted otters would find the water- if that was what it was- good for swimming, let alone a land-loving beast like himself.

"Is not water, water, water. Melted ice and something else, else, else. Good for drinking though, o, o."

"Right." Momchillo wiped at his footpaw and was silent.

The bat sisters grew nervous as the silence stretched on, unsure of their guest's condition... father would be furious if the mouse was bored.

"Want to play a game little mouse, mouse?"

Momchillo, who had been trying to guess the identity of the something else, shrugged. "Sure. Er- I'm pretty good at catch." He said, scratching the back of his head.

"Catch, catch, catch! We play bat catch!"

"Yes, yes, yes."

"What's bat catch?"

The sisters shared a look and grinned.

Momchillo realized a short while after that what the game should have been called was mouse catch, for it involved catching _him_. At the talons of less-competent flyers he'd have hit the river by now. But Fang and Sap were excellent and dove and swerved and snatched him up. It was dizzying of course and there was no fun to be had being flung and caught again. There was no real malice, he knew that, but being more or less... used... did not rub him in the best of ways. The rush of the air was not so strong, and he never had to worry about falling but that was one of the few good things about the game. Strangely enough, his thoughts wandered to Fret.

 _"He thinks we hate him."_ Matiya had told them on the boat of the Honest Bunch. But, if that was true, why? None of them had ever acted maliciously towards him. They had had their fair share of fights, that much was true, but that couldn't have been all of it.

 _No._ Thought the mouse as Sap caught him by the scruff. _This is why he hated us. We were careless._

Careless, carefree, they had pulled jokes on everybeast. Fret had been the butt of many, sometimes deliberately, sometimes due to circumstances. Jokes, pranks, traps, tricks and their sole purpose was to get a laugh or two. But Fret had not seen it that way and Momchillo was beginning to understand why.

It was easy to forget, when being tossed through the air in a game, or being hung off a wall, that the beasts doing such things weren't doing it out of spite. What was to one beast a joke, was to another painful torment.

His deep thinking did not have the best of effects on the already-glum mouse. His ears drooped and his form seemed to sag. It did not go unnoticed by the bats, who hastily caught him and put him down, worried that their game was the cause of his sudden misery.

"Is the little mouse, okay?"

Momchillo snapped back into reality. "Oh-oh yes, yes I'm okay. A little dizzy but that was fun." He forced himself to smile but it soon faltered. Fret would have hated Bat Catch...

"Don't be sad, sad, sad."

"Here! We make you smile now, now, now!"

When Snakeskin came down he found the mouse shrieking in laughter as the sisters attacked from every angle. Nothing was spared, not between his toes, not under his armpits and not the side of his belly.

"Stopit! Stopit! Wait! Wait! Hahahahaha!"

"Min' if I join in?" The stoat asked, his smirk wide.

"N-no! Snakeskin p-pleas- hahahahahs! N-not the p-p-pads!"

Snakeskin did not join in, he did not help either but turned to Snap. "Kids are always the bes' ain' they?" There was a note of longing in his voice that did not go unnoticed but the bat chief knew better than to stick his nose in. "May'aps I should just leave 'im with ye?"

"N-no plea-hahahaha! P-please!"

"'Ey, careful. The mouse's 'ad enough."

Instantly the two leapt off of him, allowing Momchillo to recover. Dizzily he got to his feet, a wide, goofy grin spread across his face. But it was a sham that did not quite hide the tears in his eyes. Helpless laughter was a painful thing after a while... "Well... That... Was ... Fun."

"No needs te say yer goodbyes. We'll be back soon with the other one, won't we? An' wha' we discussed." Snakeskin winked at the Bat Chief before taking Momchillo by the paw.

"See you later little mouse, mouse, mouse." Sap and Tree Fang waved.

Momchillo waved back as he walked, eager to leave the careless bats and their strange habits behind.

It had certainly been an _experience._ And as his thoughts began drifting back to Fret, he realized that it might just have been an educational one.

* * *

 _Footnote: Seven thousand words, Black and White's longest chapter yet, dedicated to Momchillo getting abused? Well? Why not? Sorry this took so long *shows list of excuses* but the good news is my business trip is over so I should be able to update... frequently? Although I am a bit behind on my reading sooooo..._

 _Just relax, I'll update eventually. *Panics*_

 _Edit: Changed the bit where Snakeskin and Threeclaws names got muddled. If you spot any more Threeclaws here tell me where and I'll correct it._


	57. Bats, Bears and Bog-Dwellers, Oh My!

**A/N: Hehehehe, glad** **you all noticed that there was a point behind Momchillo's abuse- I don't always torture my characters but when I do (okay, I always do) it's for a reason. I was a little worried you guys might not pick up on it or rather that the meaning would be lost under all the other interesting developments of the chapter (the bear! A bear! Yay! Bears amiright?) but you all seemed to have figured it out and I didn't have to beat you over the head with it (double yay!)**

 **Also for those of you unawares (so... maybe none of you?) I have started a Drabble collection. It is called Black and White Drabbles and you may find it on my profile.**

 **Now ahem, more detailed responses.**

 **Waycaster: I wouldn't say Momchillo is scared of heights per say, just that he is *very* high up (technically he's still underground, but the drop is rather large so he'd technically higher now than he's ever been. It doesn't help that Snakeskin isn't the most responsible of vermin and that he has no idea of what's waiting for them there. Figurative and literal nightmare is correct :D**

 **AlexFalTalon: Momchillo's development is honestly a little bit hard to write. Which is probably why it's coming so slowly... That said I think i'm doing a good job so far. Also note that the bat sisters are basically the otter twins- how's that for a parralel? Plus it's fun to victimize him XD Not saying he deserves it per say- but it does help with perspective.**

 **Snakeskin deals with snakes. He takes literally everything from their dead bodies (which is probably why you don't want to know where he gets his fur from o.0) including the poison if they are a poisonous snake. And there's a bear. Which is causing troubles for the bats.**

 **Abrahem: Sorry, I don't know much about the Space Race/Cold War. If my comments were unfounded forgive me.  
**

 **Yeah... it's been a while. Glad the bats surprised someone. The 'eek, eek, eek' might be the case but Brian is the one who came up with bat speech so if I have any credit in this regard its because of him. Not sure what his inspiration was but I put it down to echolocation (they repeat words to get a better 'image' of who they're talking to, since bats are blind).**

 **Yes... he had... offspring... Decide based on that what you will. The Snake Skull is actually very important later on, for reasons you shall see... ages from now... but I needed something to cover his face and Snakeskin was there so...**

 **I can look for it I guess (never heard of Solomon Kane before), although if you could give me the name of the fic...**

 **Hope the project goes well! (Throw a nod at Fret while you're at it XD)**

 **Snakeskin... isn't a musician. And this isn't a Disney movie so neither is Momchillo. We might get more of Maggie May but we'll have to wait for me to figure out exactly where to dump it.**

 **SPOILERS FOR GAME OF THRONES!**

 **I... loved it! And it broke my heart but okay. Honestly didn't think Edd needed to go (he's so funny in the books! "Stay back he's got blue eyes!") but shock deaths are GoTs specialty so okay. Lyanna Mormont, while not my favourite (I kinda predicted her death a week earlier) had a badass exit if ever there was one. Beric Dondarion... I pegged him for dead too but didn't expect to be as sad as I was. Geez. Jorah Mormont... again, never the biggest fan of him, but ever since he stopped hitting on Dany he grew on me. And then they killed him. Dammit I liked his voice!**

 **And then Theon Greyjoy... Oh boy! He was always one of my favourite characters. To some extent I think he deserved the Ramsay treatment (not *all* of it but he did get Robb killed so...) but his self-conflicted attitude and the complexities of his character (Fret is based off of him, as you well know)... Plus he was great this season! Rescued Yara effortlessly, went to Winterfell on good terms with both of his families (that Sansa hug... I shipped them...) and died protecting Bran. "You're a good man." Still makes my eyes water!**

 **I predicted his death mind you, but I was kind of hoping he'd take out the Night King doing it (how's _that_ for redemption!) I don't mind that Arya did it (because Arya is, has and always will be kewl... even if I do wish she had a bit more of her older personality and they had built up her and Gendry's romantic relationship a _teensy_ bit more). And of course, knowing he was gonna die and seeing him die are two very different things. Yara's reaction is gonna be fun! Ina like... sad... way. **

**I still kind of wish he stood up at the end, ripped the spear out and said 'What is dead may never die'. But alas...**

 **I also think Davos should have killed Mel. Don't get me wrong she kinda saved the day with the trench, but she kind of also got away with burning Shireen... I personally would have given Stannis' death a callback. She walks out of Winterfell, passes Davos a sword, turns to him and says 'Do your duty'. Davos pauses then swings and cut to black.**

 **I was a little surprised that Brienne, Tormund, Podrick (YAY!) and Grey Worm (I thought he would be the first death...) survived, but I think the show is trying to ease us into a false sense of security- the real shit is coming soon (pardon my language... although you watch Game of Thrones so it shouldn't really bother you...)**

 **So yeah, I thought it was amazing (but where the hell is Ghost! Direwolves are cool!)**

 **END OF SPOILERS!**

 **Hehehehe, glad that little factoid helped out. Now I can advertise my story as educational! Definitely not plagiarism (it's not like I own biological facts, now is it?)  
**

 **Perceptive as always, Snakeskin had more than one child. As to who/what/where they are...**

 **Yeah... the Sonic movie is really going through the ringer... the pore hedgehog deserved better... even if he looks nothing like a real hedgehog XD**

 **Berserker88: Sharpfur's story is indeed the most tragic (in my opinion). At the moment he thinks he's lost his entire family (minus now Greyclaw- but now Greyclaw's a mouse). Explaining the reasoning was a little challenging but you did get the gist of it. I don't think it's solely that he's changing that's the issue- but he doesn't really have much choice in as far as the change is concerned. If his family were with him, for example, he might feel a bit less conflicted. For example, the changing of his ways may feel like he's betraying them and their way of life. There's a lot going on around him and he can't feasibly process all of it. So he goes to extremes- because only vermin deal in absolutes- dresses like a hare, and then *that* leads to further disaster leaving him with another thing to process. On top of that he's got a very complicated relationship with his two friends. On the one hand they manipulate him and they do spend a lot of time arguing, but they are all he's got at this point.**

 **I think that his changing is one issue, and how much the world around him is changing is another issue- and there are a lot of issues between the two of those things so Sharpfur is left with a bunch of emotions, thoughts and feelings that he can't really deal with because they're so many of them and they came out of nowhere.**

 **Overdid the tic- hehehehe, yes, yes, yes. And it _is_ meant to be a little bit obnoxious. I did think of Mr Montapue (pew?) (although thankfully his tic is far less... annoying...). But there were bats in Mossflower and one other Redwall book (I can't remember which one) and they all had the bat talk. Think of it in the same way all moles speak in 'ois' and 'moins' and hares saying 'wot' like there's no tomorrow. I May have dramatically increased the bat-talk (pretty sure it's just the last syllable in the books, rather than the whole last word) for the sake of making them buggy- but I do like Snakeskin's line (it's almost an author's note really. "Bugs me too, but bats like bugs they do.") **

**Their sole purpose may be to teach Momchillo a lesson, and they may be annoying, but as Abrahem pointed out, they're not trying to be mean- they're just overly enthusiastic and Momchillo is small.  
**

 **Overly-long author's note... aside...**

* * *

Bartok felt sweat drip down his face, off his ears and really from everywhere. He was sweating and he was sweating profusely. A constant 'drip, drip, drip' followed his frantic flapping, as if a leaking bucket were attached to his legs.

Chief Snap was a good chief every way one looked at it. He had an heir and a spare (or rather two heirs) in his possession, which meant the bat clans would face no succession crisis. Under his rule they had flourished, coming up with new ways to attract bugs and insects of every kind for his tribe to feast on. By not killing some beetles, and even nurturing a few choice specimens (and giving them plenty of guano to do with as bugs did) he had ensured a lasting food supply that could last from early autumn to late summer if need be. Their supply of flies, worms, beetles, and larvae of various types, had not run out in several seasons.

Everything had changed with the bear's arrival. As big as a horde of rats, with the strength of twenty beasts. Great gaping jaws and sharp fangs that would make a wolverine whimper. Claws as sharp and cold as spear tips it had roared and roared, demanding food- lest it smash a way through the tunnels and make a meal of bat. It had even somehow gotten it's overly large paws on some unfortunate bats. They had probably been eaten by now...

Snap had provided as much food as could be spared, and that had solved the problem for perhaps half a day. The bear had returned, demanding even more. And more, and more, and more, until the bats were rationed to a bowl of worms each and nothing more. That was when the Chief made his next move to ensure the survival of their clan. If they gave away all the grubs there would be nothing to eat, but surely a bear could eat more than measly insects? So, each day when the bear did it's roaring, Snap would send his bats to find it some flesh, and another, chosen at random, to give themselves up if nothing else could satisfy the beast.

None of the chosen bats had returned so far, and much to the grey bat's horror, today he'd been unfortunate enough to draw the shortest straw.

Bartok had no choice. He had to find something. He'd spent much of the morning searching for anything remotely edible, but any tunnel that wasn't empty only had snake skulls, and fur blankets. He had considered running away, but then the bear would murder his tribe. He had considering giving the bear his rations- but Snap had put a stop to that.

"The bear will eat you anyways, ways, ways." The chief had said to the eighth bat chosen. "If you're going to die, die, die, don't waste food, food, food."

He had considered sneaking into the grubbery- but Snap had that under lock and key after the third desperate bat had tried the same trick. He'd been a clever bat, the third one, cleverer than Bartok. And he was gone now.

In other words Bartok was doomed. One more tunnel, tunnel, tunnel. He kept repeating to himself. If there was nothing there he'd go and give himself up. It was better that he die than the clan. Eventually, with less bats to feed, Chief Snap could give the bear all the bugs it wanted, and still have enough to keep his tribe alive.

It was such a shame Bartok would not be alive to see that day...

Sighing despairingly, and barely stifling a sob, Bartok turned into his final 'last tunnel'. His heart skipped a beat at the sight of half-eaten flesh, then he flapped towards it. Not a big piece of meat by any standard, and certainly not good enough for a bear. The grey bat felt his ears, his heart, his stomach- really everything- sag in defeat. He was doomed. There was nothing left but to accept his fate... as a bear's lunch.

It was as he turned to leave that he heard a tiny, muffled whimper coming from under a pile of blankets.

"Hello, hello, hello?" He whispered, and his echos bounced off the walls and back until he saw it. A pair of feetpaws sticking out of the pile.

Hopping as silently as he could towards it, he proceeded to carefully pull out the sleeping beast. Bartok expected claws and fangs and a fight. Instead the snoozing vermin gave him a sleepy 'But I don't want a baff...".

The ferret was not much smaller than him, but much younger. A large bubble of guilt swelled within him, but Bartok popped it determinedly. It was him or this unknown vermin and Bartok would not go to his grave. Not today.

One talon grabbed the ferret by the tail, the other by the scruff of it's neck. Flapping as silently and as carefully as he could (the last thing he wanted was for the ferret to wake up now and start clawing everything) Bartok felt hope begin to glow within him.

Perhaps he would see another sunrise...

* * *

 _Fret had raked the ground all the way from the orchard to the bathhouse._

 _He hadn't been rolling in the mud, it was just a little bit of dirt. His fur was always scruffy! No his paws were not sticky with sugar, that was definitely not how he'd torn up his copy of the History of Mossflower. He didn't smell so bad! Grollo was worse! And Matiya and Momchillo_ had _been rolling in the mud!_

 _But she never listened to his excuses, just waited patiently as the soapy bubbles formed over the boiling water. Then, when fully satisfied she would drop him inside like a dirty rag and wait for him to inevitably resurface._

 _He did so, spluttering and complaining about the heat of the water and trying to climb out, but Bella was ready and would dunk him unceremoniously down once more._

 _He'd rise begging for mercy, with bubbles growing from his nose. But the Badgermum never listened. "You still smell like vermin. Here, I'll wash it off, off, off." A brush the size of a club descended with unnecessary force, and drove him to the bottom of the bucket, where he lay holding his breath for as long as he could. The brush's hairs raked across his back for what seemed like an eternity and soon he was struggling to breathe. But Bella did not stop until the very last moment, when all hope seemed lost. He was lifted out of the bath, gasping for breath, and placed before a mirror._

 _He was pudgier than he ever remembered being, and the furs along his back stuck out like the quills of a hedgehog. But Bella was not satisfied. His fur was still black and white, his claws still sharp and his mask still present._

 _Snatching a sponge, she was even more thorough this time. She washed behind the ears, between his toes and even stretched his tail with soap until all the black and white fur had fallen off to reveal raw, red flesh. It hurt. His whole form seemed to be burning as if on fire._

 _Once more he was placed before the mirror. Bright red and with a tail puffy from being dried he looked ever-so-slightly like a squirrel. But that would not do! He still smelled like a ferret and his teeth were sharp._

 _A toothbrush was the Badgermum's next weapon of choice. It was one so large he threatened to gag on it. The skin over his cheeks strained from the pressure of the moving bulge, until finally it was withdrawn. But she was not done with him and once more flung him into the boiling water. It stung like a hive of bees and made him want to cry out in agony. But the Badgermum never listened and lifting him up, proceeded to bend and fold, twist and turn, stretch and shrink him until she slammed him down a final time before the mirror._

 _A mouse, a bright-red, bushy-tailed, spiky-furred and long-whiskered mouse stared back at him. His fangs replaced by a pair of dull incisors. His claws rendered dull, his black and white fur peeled clean off. All that remained of him was the black mask over his eyes aside from that there was no trace left of ferret._

 _But Bella was still not satisfied! "I can still smell the vermin, vermin, vermin!" She cried, and slammed him into the mirror. Fret, stared at his reflection and was relieved to find himself again. But the relief did not last long. Bella had him by the scruff once more, over a bucket. Yet the water was hotter here. Red hot, like melted iron and Fret squirmed in her grasp._

 _"Please! P-please no! No! I'll be good I-"_

 _"Bath time vermin, vermin, vermin." Was all she said, plunging him into the water with avengeance._

* * *

The water was icy cold and the sudden jolt woke Fret up faster than a bolt of lightning could have. Instinctively he beat at the water in frenzied panic, trying and failing to overcome the mighty current.

"Momch-" His cry for help was abruptly cut short by his lack of swimming ability. He had never been fond of the abbey pond (with his stink any excursions there would result in a bath), but even if he had been the calm, still waters there was nothing at all like the roaring current carrying him away. His tail was numb from cold and his crazed paddling was all he could do to keep his head above the surface.

What was going on? He'd been asleep only moments before! Had Snakeskin sold them out? Or was this some kind of joke? Where was Momchillo?Perhaps all the ice had melted?

He panicked once more as a dark shadow swept over him. Yet raising his eyes for a fraction of a second his hopes soared. A curious, long-eared, flat-nosed beast flew ahead not far above him. If he could just get it's attention...

"Hey! h-e-ack! HELP!"

His hopes dropped faster than his ears did when the bat began to snicker.

"Sorry vermin, vermin, vermin!" The creature shrieked over the sound of rushing water. "Bear wants meat, meat, meat! Has to eat, eat, eat. Better vermin than bat, bat, bat! BYE, BYE, BYE!" The creature's relieved cackle was drowned out by sudden roaring, and Fret felt his heart drop through Hellgates, for he was now headed directly towards a waterfall.

He was stiff for a full five seconds before trying his hardest to paddle against the current. His claws raked and and tore at the river, but it was no good. He was nearing the edge now, far too quickly.

"Ferret smashed to bits, bits bit!" The bat cheered as Fret screamed.

* * *

"So Fret's parents are in that book? Or is that their diary?" The mouse had resolved to be nicer to Fret. Even if the ferret was at him most intolerable, Momchillo vowed he would tolerate him. That did not mean he was not curious.

"Stop talkin' about the book. 'E might be awake an' 'e might 'ear this an' then 'e'll be all grumpy."

"He's always grumpy." Momchillo pointed out before he could stop himself. Old habits died hard but he really would have to start thinking before he said something.

"I know that. But ye'd be two if ye were in 'is position."

"How does he even know who his parents are? Wait- did he meet them?" His brain got to work building up this new theory. Fret had been separated from him and the Honest Bunch despite being in the same castle, had his parents arranged that? But if his real parents were at the castle, why had Fret gone with him? Surely the ferret would have turned him away if the the Lands of Ice and Snow was where he belonged. He had had ample opportunity to turn him in even, but had gone for a book instead of guards... "His parents aren't nice are they?" It was the simplest solution.

"Not one bit." Snakeskin admitted. "If they are 'is real parents that is. Not even 'e knows."

 _Well... that theory seems unlikely now..._ Yet the mere mention of parents stirred another memory inside the mouse, one from earlier today. "So... how are your kids?"

Snakeskin hastily stiffened, as if struck by a whip. And the agonized expression that came and went from him, made Momchillo regret his curiosity.

"They're good." The stoat said, in a tone that suggested the opposite.

Momchillo did not pursue the topic and was silenced.

His head spinning with Fret and the ferret's parents, Snakeskin and the stoat's children and the bats, the mouse was glad to arrive back in the comfort of the nursery tunnel.

The ferret was likely still asleep, and Momchillo made no move to wake him. Snakeskin on the other paw, did. Pouncing upon the pile of blankets with an unnecessary cackle, the white furred stoat rubbed at the blankets where Fret's head should have been.

"Wake up Frettie! It's time fur breakfis'! Ye thought snakes were bad? Wait till ye get a taste of bee'le!" Nothing in the blankets seemed to stir. Snakeskin grumbled and began throwing them off one by one. "I know ye need yer beau'y sleep but Vulpuz an' 'ellgates Fret ye need te-" The stoat threw the last blanket off and found nothing but cold ice beneath it.

Momchillo felt his stomach sink. This was most definitely not good...

* * *

"Idiots, idiots, idiots!" Somebeast was saying, but Fret could not see who or what they were. It was an entirely new voice, thick and gravelly, almost like croaking. The ferret was relieved to find himself alive- perhaps the waterfall had just been a nightmare?

"The whole point of this operation is to get grubs! Worms! Nice, sweet, tasty beetles! Something I can eat! Does it look like I can eat ferret?" The ferret, still dazed, felt something warm and sticky wrap around his head. It was uncomfortable to say the least, and if he wasn't as disorientated as he was he'd have been squirming like a fly in a web... although that was perhaps not the best of similes. "Web? Duh-bit?"

"Actually I'm pretty sure you could. He's not a big creature and you've already got his head in your mou-"

"IDIOT!" There came the loud sound of clanging, as if some expensive goblet had been thrown. "Look at my tongue! Lookatit! See that? Fur! Fur, fur, fur, _fur everywhere!"_

"Well if you don't want to eat it, I cou-"

A smack as loud as a thunderclap echoed through the air. "He's mine for eating! But I don't want him! I didn't want the other things too! What am I supposed to do with a beaver? And I can't eat bats either! Stupid beasts! Okay, listen up! Here's the plan. We leave the cave, stomp up the waterfall, roar a bit and wait for that idiot bat to show his ugly face- then we demand bugs not beasts."

There was vast cheering that told Fret there were more than two beasts in the room.

"What do we do with the vermin then?"

Fret felt himself stiffen in fear. Feeling was returning to his form but he was still too weak to open his eyes. Another of his senses, however, made itself of use to him.

The scent was unfamiliar, ruling out anybeast from Redwall or Clogg's crew. It was strong and pungent and set his nose to uncomfortable twitching. An earthy kind of acid clung to the air, like mud to a habit. Fret had never been to a swamp before but this, he imagined, was what a swamp smelt like.

"We could try and eat him." A third voice, even deeper than the first two, suggested. "Put this in his mouth and roast it slowly over a fire. My ma used to do that to vermin."

This suggestion brought much excitement and Fret, too weak to resist, felt what was no doubt an apple get shoved into his mouth. Something wet and sticky was dumped over his head and faintly he caught a whiff of salt and pepper. A dozen slimy arms slid over his form, like the tentacles of a kraken. A singularly unpleasant experience, and one he very much wanted to get away from.

This was followed almost immediately by spitting, coughing and spluttering. Which told Fret that it most likely hadn't been arms liking him...

"Gah! Fur! It's stuck to my tongue! It's stuck!"

"It tastes _disgusting!_ "

"Like dung!"

"Smells like dung too!"

"Very yucky!"

"Put it with the others?"

"And waste more food on it?"

"Let's just kill it!"

This too, was met with roars of approval, but all Fret could bring himself to do was screw his eyes shut tighter and shrivel up in fear.

"NOOOOOOO! You will not slit his throat!" Fret breathed in relief. "The blood would ruin that pretty cloak. Take it off, and _then_ kill him."

The ferret felt as the beautiful, black-scaled cloak Snakeskin had made for him was pulled off. Something, or somebeast incredibly strong lifted him off the ground by the throat. It was not going to choke him of course, but the positioning made neck-snapping much easier.

Fret opened his eyes blearily. Despite the dangerous predicament he was in and all the instincts he had ever obeyed telling him to panic, Fret was too tired to do anything beyond be exhausted.

"It's awake!" Said the beast holding him, who looked very much like a blob of brown. Almost as if a two-season old mole had drawn it.

"Is it? Hmm, maybe he's important. Don't kill him yet!"

Fret was shoved rather forcefully into a chair. His eyes came into focus and he felt the panicked heartbeats he was all too familiar with, return in force. He was surrounded by toads.

The one that had been holding him was the ugliest being Fret had ever seen. Tall and thin and brown, with too many warts to count. It wore nothing but a loincloth and was shivering from this rather unintelligent decision. The creature Fret assumed to be the chief was the second ugliest. Covered in warts and with breath like poison, he was short and fat, yet seemed big enough to swallow him. Thankfully he hadn't tried that. Presently the chief was struggling to squeeze into a cloak made for somebeast of much smaller size.

It took him nearly eight minutes.

The cloak successfully tied, the toad posed for his followers to admire him and Fret hated the creature, perhaps more than he'd hated anybeast. The cheering subsided and the chief toad sat back upon a throne of bones.

"So vermin." He said casually, as if he were talking to a friend and not a captive. Let alone one he'd covered in honey and tried to swallow. "Do you think it suits me?" He indicated the cloak. "Pretty thing like this shouldn't be wasted on a furbody anyways."

Despite his strong inclination to do so, Fret knew better than to tell him that he looked stupid, and that no matter what he wore his _face_ was the problem. Thankfully the ferret still had his survival instincts. And an apple stuck to his teeth.

"So who are you? What are you doing in my tunnels? And most importantly for you, why shouldn't I just k-"

"If we peeled the fur off and roasted it I bet he'd taste like sparrow." Another toad mused.

"Don't be ridiculous. He'd taste like fish."

"CAN'T YOU SEE I'M INTERROGATING HIM!? QUIET ALL OF YOU!" The toad turned back to Fret expectantly. After a full five minutes of growing impatient he finally snapped. "Well?"

Fret would have answered, his life was on the line after all, but there was the small issue of having an apple in his mouth. The toad must have noticed, for he gave his webbed fingers a wet snap and the apple was removed.

"Name vermin." He growled once more. As if the delay in information-receiving was somehow his fault.

Here the ferret paused. Fret had been his name for longer but there was always the chance the amphibians had heard of Mad-Eye Marik, in which case Whimper might serve him better...

"Your name!" The fat toad demanded, his multiple chins wriggling as he banged a fist into the side of his throne.

Frightened as he was, Fret did not waste the time he still had left and replied. "F-fret."

The frog (Fret did not know the difference between frogs and toads, having never met either beforepaw) came uncomfortably close, determined to make this experience as unpleasant as possible. Weak as he was, it was a miracle Fret did not pass out from the smell of his breath. "So... Fufret. Know why you're here?"

The ferret's mind scrambled for an explanation. But he had not a clue as to the desired answer and thinking about it gave him a headache. Staying awake was all he could manage.

"Answer me!" The toad snapped, spittle flying out it's wide, toothless mouth and all around the young ferret.

"I-I don't." The ferret admitted, trying to tear his nose away from the stench. It was thick enough to knock him out if he wasn't careful. A few more whiffs of the creature and he'd be down for the count. And then his life was forfeit. The toad grew closer and Fret whimpered and shut his eyes. His head burned, as if ready to split open.

Thankfully the toad pulled back, threw it's head high into the air and cackled with mad laughter. "This one's scared! Hahahahah! We have a scared little vermin now boys!"

The toads guffawed, and Fret felt a tingling sensation begin to crawl up his arms and legs. Soon he would be able to move again...

When they were done laughing the chief toad began flourishing his cape. Or rather Fret's stolen cloak. "This is fine clothing." He twisted a scale between two fat fingers. "Where'd you steal it?"

"I didn't." Fret snapped, before he could stop himself. The toad's face contorted in rage. "I-I- it was a gift!"

The amphibian continued to glower at him. "A gift from who? And where'd they steal it? No vermin could have possibly made a cloak this comfortable!" Snakeskin would have something interesting to say about that... "Tis fit for a king!"

"My father's a warlord." Fret replied, knowing that Snakeskin would have something to say about that as well. "He gave it to me."

"Warlord, eh?" The toad's eyes were narrowed in consideration. "This... warlord... he doesn't happen to want you dead by any chance?"

Fret's heartbeat shot up again. "H-he's my father. O-of course not."

"He's lying." Decided one toad, the same one that had lifted him off the ground. "He's a runt. A scrawny orphan who got his paws on something valuable."

"I'm not lying! M-my father would p-pay for my freedom in- in _anything!_ " This was a lie. Fret had never known his father, and even if it was Marik he was probably still lying. What kind of warlord's son winded up in his positions anyways? Besides, Longclaw was a King and wouldn't have raised a strand of fur to save his own son were Bork in his position. Of course if Bork was in this position he'd likely be tearing through everybeast present.

"Prove it!" Demanded the chief toad.

"I-I-er-" Fret had been distracted by his thoughts. Constance would have payed for his freedom in anything back when he was a dibbun. Now though, after all he'd done...

"He's lying." The tall toad said, drawing a knife.

"Mad-Eye Marik!" Fret shouted before the blade came anywhere near him. "My father is Mad-Eye Marik and if you er- g-get word to him he-he- he'll send a ransom." His ears rose and fell repeatedly, praying that they fell for this ploy.

"He made that name up." The tall toad accused. "He made it _all_ up!"

"No he didn't!" The fat toad glared at him. "This is why _I'm_ in charge! You've got no brains Longtongue! Mad-Eye Marik is a real and mighty warlord and you wouldn't want to cross him." The fat amphibian turned back to the ferret. "My only question is this, how much are you worth to him?"

"I-I-I'm his-er heir." Despite the strength of his panic, Fret felt some semblance of confidence slowly return to him. The chief was buying it, never mind that Marik was dead. If word got to Clogg, he was safe, if he somehow managed to escape, he was safe... and if they found out he'd lied to them he was doomed. Unless Momchillo and Snakeskin came to his rescue... which was unlikely even if they were still alive.

"Mad-Eye Marik will get his son back." The fat toad promised, a cruel smile on his face. "But how will he know we're not lying? We need proof that we have you. A finger? An eye? Your tail?"

Fret's hopes came crashing down like a bird with a broken wing, and his horror, visible and apparent, made the toads cackle in glee. The chief withdrew a small knife and grabbed Fret by the wrist.

"So which finger would you like to loose?"

This could not be happening. It wasn't real. This was a nightmare. A joke. A cruel prank. He wanted to cry, to curl up his toes and his form and just get away from it all. Life could not even let him sleep without loosing a finger.

"Maybe the pinky, eh? Not too big, nobeast'll even kno-"

"Wait! Wait, wait- I-if you harm a f-fur on my f-form." The ferret said, his voice and his form quivering in fright. "My f-father will f-flay the lot of you." He swallowed heavily. "Y-you could s-send a-a-a, I could sign your letter for you!"

"A letter?" The Chief sounded intrigued. He turned to his fellow toads. "I told you he was a warlord's son. How else would he know to write?"

There was a murmur of agreement amongst the swamp dwellers and Fret allowed himself a tiny breath of relief. His fingers were safe for now.

"Warthog!" The fat toad shouted, and a toad as ugly as the rest of them, but covered in vile, swollen spots of green, appeared from the crowd. "You will take a few strands of fur as proof of his capture." Fret winced as a few strands of fur were plucked none-too-gently from his tail. It was better than loosing a finger, he supposed. "Tell this warlord that we will will return his son in good health if he gives us eight times his weight in bugs and beetles!"

Warthog bowed. "Where will I find this warlord?"

"Longclaw's castle." Fret replied, having expected the question.

"Castle?" The chief toad's wide lips spread into a toothless grin. "Make it twenty times his weight!"

The amphibious fiends cheered wildly and Warthog bowed one more and left to do as he was bid.

"Longtongue, take Fufret, Son of Mad-Eye Marik and put him with the others. Swampbreath, guard the door!" The toad turned around and grabbed Fret by the muzzle. "No harm will come to you ferret. You have the word of Chief Slimegut of the Yellowbellies!" Snickering, the toad pressed himself even closer. "But you're not going home anytime soon!"

Fret could not take it any more. His heartbeat was too uneven, his nose was too sensitive, his body too weak and the stench too powerful. The world was going black.

* * *

 _Footnote: Feels like forever since I put a footnote here at the end... Ahem._

 _Bartok the bat is named after a character from a 1999 (I think that's the year anyways) movie called Anastasia about the Russian princess. I needed a name and Bartok is a) associated with bats and b) Redwallian. I know what he did is technically evil, but don't judge him too harshly. Bats are neither vermin nor woodlander (technically neither are froggies) so he fits neatly into morally grey. He's not an important character, but I needed Fret to wind up with the froggies and didn't want to just start with the dream sequence. So yeah.  
_

 _Now for the bear in the room..._

 _No bears here XD I know I said on the forum that I wanted one- and I did- but there was no way to put one that didn't over-complicate the plot. But I promised you toads, didn't I? (Frogs but whatever). I still want to use one mind, but it'll probably have to wait for a sequel.  
_

 _Next chapter we get introduced to another Redwall species! Because bats aren't enough and I wanted bears buuuut BEAVERS! :D_


	58. No Bearing

**A/N: Another big author's note incoming.**

 **AlexFalTalon: He wonders that too, blame the Lord of Hellgates I guess XD Bears aren't in canon as far as I know (not even sure if they were mentioned to be honest) But there was a beaver in the first Redwall.**

 **Indeed, it will Remnants. Though perhaps not in the way you expect.**

 **Keldor: Indeed, the bats are unlikely to show mercy. And yes, smelling foul has it's advantages (just ask skunks) and seeing as so many of my characters get eaten alive (I think I overuse that trope...) I figured it was time to subvert it.**

 **Berserker88: Yeah the bath nightmare was one hell of a freak show (scarily easy to write) and no, Fret can never have a moment of peace XD**

 **Sebias: I see you were putting the pieces together then... a worthy apprentice indeed...**

 **Lord Demon: I'm undecided. They might.**

 **Abrahem: Yeah this story was kind of lacking in detestable villainy (instant evil add toads!) And Bartock... we'll see where his coin falls. Ah yes, my bathing fetish has increased in strength! Muahahahaha! (For the record I don't have one) Funnily enough I imagined the same voices but in reverse (the leader is ribbity and scheming and Longtongue has the low pitched, smug croak)- voices are weird sometimes XD Yeah it was- but then that got shifted onto Bork and Longclaw when I created them.**

 **The whole final season is rushed... I mean, I still enjoyed it but because they didn't build up to most of it a lot of it came out of nowhere really. Which is a shame because the author has spent decades building up to some stuff. Why the Night King goes out so quickly? D and D want to move on to Star Wars. But I do think he's not the Big Bad of the books (pretty sure they'll make a peace deal of some sort with the Others but we'll see). So it makes sense to have him out early... but at the same time it would've been better not to. My bigger qualms are honestly with some other choices of the season... But this is probably not the place to discuss them (I have begun a parody of Game of Thrones btw- A Song of Laughs and Farmers)**

 **Yeah... Arya and Gendry... really... don't (it really didn't serve a purpose so yes, it was basically 'fanservice' a waste of time that could have been used to... say build up to the Danaerys thing...**

 **Hmm... I can. Any ideas in particular for Fret and the toads?**

 **When I was a wee dibbun, yes- but I don't really remember it.**

 **Well you can voicechat so I assume it might be.**

 **I honestly think that Cersei joining their army would have been a better plotline (Cersei with Sansa the Ice Queen is... something I wish I could have seen)**

 **A cot is a baby bed- so 'good from the cot' means 'good since birth'. Somewhere in the middle/end most likely (it might even be the last line).**

"We should never have left him." Momchillo grumbled as they walked. It seemed impossible for him to be bound by a single emotion. Guilt, for both mistreating and now abandoning Fret. Desperation, for they needed to find Fret before the bear did. Anger, for why had Fret wandered off in the first place? Regret, for not expecting him to...

"Oh quit yer worryin'! 'E couldn' 'ave got far. Probably thinks we abandoned 'im or somethin'."

Now guilt and regret were at the forefront. "We should have left a note!" It was a scarily plausible scenario, the one where Fret woke up alone and ended up thinking he'd been left behind. Somehow it fitted in perfectly with the concept of an inner, more sensitive Fret hidden behind the always grumpy one.

"Ye know, ye sound a lot like 'im now." The white furred stoat said with a lazy roll of his eyes.

"I do not!" Momchillo protested hotly.

"Well ye went from whinin' te snappin' in the space of 'alf a second." Snakeskin muttered.

Momchillo grimaced. "Well maybe I'm under a lot of- what did you say it was again?- pressure! Fret is lost, in a cave system populated by snakes and bears-"

"There's just _one_ bear actually. At leas' that's what Snap tol' me."

"It's still a _bear!_ Do you really think Fret stands a chance against something like that?"

"In a figh'? Absolu'ley no'. But bears are s'possed te be big, righ'? If Fret's got 'is wits about 'im, 'e'll dive down the smalles' tunnel 'e can find an' sit tight."

"Because Fret always has his wits about him when faced with giant beasts that can tear mountain downs, doesn't he?"

"'E may not be as witty as ye mouse. But we vermin ain' stupid... Mos' of the time... Besides... Bears an' be that big."

"How would you know? Have you ever see one?"

"'Ave ye?"

Momchillo paused. "No." He admitted. "Frankly, I don't even know what a bear looks like."

Snakeskin giggled. "Me neither. I'm thinkin' it's a gian' snake with bird wings what breathes fire."

Momchillo paused again, trying to conjure this image before his mind's eye. It took nearly as much imagining as picturing Sick-Eyes as a 'young and beautiful' corsair. Worst of all was that there always seemed to be a charred, black and white tail sticking out of the bear's mouth. The young mouse shivered. "I always thought it was just a big wolverine."

Snakeskin pulled a face. Then his features spread into a grin, his eyebrows waggling like a pair of rather frightening worms... "Wha' if a bear is what 'appens when a beaver an' an 'are mate?"

"I don't know what a beaver looks like either." The mouse explained- banishing the mental image of anything mating with anything. It was not a difficult task. He was too worried about Fret to think about mating (and didn't devote much time to the thought of mating anyways).

"Ye didn' 'ave any in yer Abbey?" The stoat asked, regarding beavers.

"None." Momchillo replied, only half paying attention. A dreadful thought had entered his mind and was spreading panic and chaos across his body. Supposing Fret _had_ died, what was he supposed to do? If he went back to Redwall he would be faced with the ferret's mother- and adopted or not he had seen her molly-coddle him since dibbunhood. She would be devastated. And it would be his fault. Nobeast would condemn him of course (how had he been meant to know about the bear and the snake?), but he'd still live with the constant reminder that if he hadn't been an insensitive wretch none of this would have happened.

"Yes, well. 'Opefully we won' ever 'ave te see a livin' one."

Momchillo nodded in agreement. "And hopefully it will never see us either. Or Fret." Yet he could not shake away the horrible vision he'd had. Dream! Dream! It was not a vision, could not be a vision, _would_ not be a vision! He was going to start being nice to Fret and the ferret wouldn't become bear breakfast! Or _any_ breakfast! Not on his watch... although Fret was currently out of sight...

Snakeskin placed a paw on the mouse's shoulder. For half a second Momchillo was sure the stoat was going to give him reassurance of some kind. And he did. Just... the Snakeskin way.

"Ye know, I'm sure 'e'll be pretty touched by 'ow much yer worryin' about 'im."

"I-I- he- he... he wouldn't believe you..." Momchillo's whiskers drooped miserably. "He thinks I hate him."

The stoat raised an awkward eyebrow. "Do ye?"

"No! Of course not! It's just... complicated..."

Snakeskin rolled his eyes melodramatically, the mouse could not help but feel like it was supposed to cheer him up. "Fre'ie reaches new levels of stupidity all the time. But if ye 'ated 'im 'e'd suffer a lot more."

"Please don't call him stupid." Momchillo scanned the tunnels for any sign of black or white. "He might hear. And then he'll get hurt. An-and then..." He trailed off miserably.

Snakeskin chewed his lip awkwardly, watching as the rodent bravely bit back the wetness in his eyes. "Complica'ed relationships, eh?" He pulled the mouse into a one-armed hug for it looked very much like he needed it. "Well don' worry. We'll find yer ferret."

* * *

The frogs had been needlessly cruel, but what had he expected? His unconscious face had been thrust into an overly-warm tunnel, where the ice was melting around him like the slobber of a beast. It stunk, although so did he, and after the stench of amphibians anything was a welcome relief. His form was still weak, but not as much as it had been. Miraculously he hadn't broken anything falling down a waterfall. He could feel some of his former strength (or lack thereof... perhaps energy was a better word) returning to him.

He blinked his eyes open and gave his tail an experimental flick. He wriggled his toes and bent them back and forth as he yawned back to reality. Upon returning fully to consciousness, Fret realized three things. The first, was that the tunnel was sucking at him like a dibbun on a finger. The second, was that the tunnel was not a tunnel. The third, was that it was really somebeast's mouth.

Fret screamed, for what else could he do? Bizarrely the sucking stopped immediately, and the creature made a sound rather like a cough and a 'slurp'. Fret kicked and thrashed, and found himself flat on his back, his head covered in drool and all of a sudden dizzy.

"I'm sawy!" Squeaked the creature, sounding frightened.

Fret sat up and growled. It was too dark to tell exactly who or what he was talking to, but it was not a toad, bat, mouse or stoat. "I'll make you sorry!" He was not sure why he was so angry, but Fret scrambled to his feetpaws and bared his fangs. Although, now that he thought about it, threatening somebeast large enough to eat him was probably not a good idea...

Just as the first wave of panic set in, and much to Fret's surprise, the creature burst into loud sobbing.

"I'm sawy, I'm sawy, I'm sawy!"

"Well you had better be!" Fret snapped angrily. "What kind of sane beast does something like that!?"

"Sa-aw-"

"Sorry, sorry, sorry! That's all anybeast says! But does it make a difference? No! It doesn't! Because no matter _how_ s-sorry you are nothing changes what you've done! Nothing changes and nobeast cares an-and-" He briefly wondered whether he was talking to the crying beast or to himself.

The sobbing dramatically increased in pace and volume. "I-it's j-I was hungry! And you had honey on your f-fur an-and-" None of the words after that were coherent, and Fret looked around sheepishly, hoping nobeast could or would ever see this.

Guilt flooded through the ferret faster than an overflowing river, and he felt his ears pin themselves against the top of his head. "Shhh, i-it's okay." The ferret soothed, reaching out into the darkness in search of something to pat in a comforting way- never mind that he lacked much experience when it came to comforting. "I-er- well it's just a bit of spit." And it was sticky and he hated it, but guilt did not let him say those words. "Besides, I've been eaten before. Just er- panicked. No harm done." He tried to force a smile, but the beast probably couldn't see him anyways, making any kind of facial expressions redundant. The large creature, and Fret was thinking baby badger at this point, did not seem able to hear him, and continued crying. The ferret had to fight down the resurging temptation to tell this beast to shut his trap and quiet down- Constance had never done that to him... well she had stuffed his face with muffins once or twice just to keep him quiet...

"Come on. Er-wipe away those... allergies..." He had not cried often in his younger years (at least, not where anybeast could see him), but if by chance he ever did Constance would never call them tears- she knew he hated that- they were allergies even if Fret wasn't allergic to anything. "You'll get snot all over your fur, that's hard to wash off you know. An-and really-" The beast was still crying! He had _never_ cried for this long! What would Constance do? Well... Of course he knew _exactly_ what the big mouse would do in his position, it was the doing of it that was hard...

Yet, after five whole minutes filled with nothing but the sound of crying (which reminded him of his own pathetic teariness), Fret had had enough and, knowing he would regret this, advanced towards the darkness, his arms spread wide,. "Who wants a h-hug?" He nearly gagged at the last word, and dropped his arms immediately, feeling more awkward in that one moment than ever before in his lifetime. Fret most certainly did not want a hug.

The crying creature did, and wrapped a pair of large arms around him, burying it's face (or rather, the tip of it's muzzle) into his chest. Awkwardly the ferret patted with one paw, the other pinned in the hug. "There, there. Now don't worry. Er- all is forgiven."

The creature sneezed and Fret clenched his teeth shut as the fur on his chest became covered in snot. _This_ beast, he decided, was worse than _Bork!_ Whatever it was, wiped away at it's tears with the ferret's rump, before gently setting him down. "Thank you." It sniffed. "I needed that."

Fret gritted his teeth all the harder. A paw made it's way to his chest. His Nuncle's gift, the yo-yo, was still there wrapped around his neck, but where Clogg's book had been there lay only slime. _I_ didn't _!_ He growled to himself, trying and failing to extract his paw from the substance.

There was an awkward silence for the entirety of two minutes, wherein Fret managed, with difficulty, to pull his paw free.

"I'm Butch by dee way."

Definitely a baby badger... perhaps it was a good thing neither of them could see the other. Knowing him to be a ferret might have been all the excuse 'Butch' needed to eat him...

"Does dee ferretch have a name?"

"It's Fret." He replied. "How'd you know anyways?" Perhaps badger vision was sharper... the Badgermum had always caught him at mischief- even if he hadn't really been involved with said mischief. Come to think of it though... This beast did not smell like Bella... In fact, he was pretty sure the creature stunk of... flowers? No, that was his nose being funny...

The dibbun, whatever it was, giggled, and Fret imagined a faint blush. "You... well... ferretches are stinky."

"Badgers smell bad too." Fret snapped. "And so does everybeast if they don't wash." Of course it always came back to how pungent he was...

It gave another tiny giggle. "Do you dink I'm a badger?" When his question was met with nothing but the sound of Fret's indignant breathing, the creature stopped giggling, stood up, waddled past Fret and pulled at a rope.

The ferret had to shield his eyes from the sudden light of a hundred fireflies contained in a glass jar (in hindsight it was more likely to be made of ice) larger than himself. His vision adjusted, he stared up at the baby beaver.

It was a large beast, but definitely younger than he was. Fret reached up to it's belly, though Butch still had much growing left to do. Perhaps thrice as wide, although it looked skinnier than it should have been. It's tail was what really caught the ferret's attention. A large, flat, scaly thing, not at all like what he'd imagined from a creature of the water.

"I'm Butch by dee way." The beaver repeated, sitting down next to him, and throwing Fret into the shadow of his form.

"You already said that." He grumbled in reply, prying his eyes away from the brown-furred beast. "And I already said I was Fret."

Awkwardly the bigger beast tweedled his thumbclaws as they went back into silence.

"So dee fwaggies got you too?"

"What do you think?" Fet spat, his footpaw kicking at the ice as he stretched it forwards. "Why else would I be here?"

Butch's face fell, and the young beaver turned away, miserable again. "I- I dought my parentches might.." It's lips quivered, but the ferret was quick to notice and quicker to prevent an eruption. If Momchillo could see him now...

"Shhh, shh, it's okay." A paw traveled as high up the beaver's arm as possible. He'd been aiming for the shoulder but that was not exactly feasible unless he stood up on tip-paw. And Fret was not about to do that for the sole sake of comforting. "I'm sure your parents are looking for you. And they'll find you, an-and..." _You won't push them off a boat when they do_... "Don't worry Butch. You'll get rescued." It was a good thing he was a talented liar, or else the beaver babe might not have believed him.

Butch sniffed loudly, and Fret's patting resumed at a quicker pace. The last thing he wanted was to be used as a pawkerchief... again. "You pwamise?"

The smallest smidgens of guilt made their presence known within the ferret. But he was vermin anyways, and all vermin lied. "I promise!" He did his best job at a cheerful grin and the beaver believed him. Of course, Fret knew that any reassurances he made would only lead to more tears- for Fret knew all too well that rescue never came on time. Clogg had left the Lands of Ice and Snow to go raiding 'South'. No location had been named in Fret's presence, and if it had been he likely hadn't been paying attention. Longclaw was the only beast of import left that Fret, or rather Whimper, had spoken to. And their interactions had been few and far between. If word got to the wolverine that _Fufret_ , the son of Mad-Eye Marik had been captured by some toads... well... he did not doubt that the messenger would end up suffering a fate worse than death merely for something as petty as wasted time...

And then his life was forfeit. The toads would know it all to be a sham, and he'd be torn to pieces, or flayed alive or whatever- he did not doubt that they would find some cruel method of death for him. Fate never struggled to make him suffer...

"I need to escape." The ferret said aloud, beginning to pace. " _We_ need to escape." He corrected, before Butch could start overthinking. "If I stay here I'll die..." Momchillo and Snakeskin were somewhere in the tunnels if they were alive. Would they bother looking for him? Most likely not, but Momchillo had been oddly clingy since the snake incident... He turned to face Butch. "You didn't see a stoat by any chance, did you? White fur, tall, weird eye, funny accent?"

Butch shook his head sadly.

"What about a mouse?" Fret went on. There was always the possibility the others had been captured too. "Brown-ish yellow fur? Shorter than me? Big ears?"

Butch shook his head again, his lips quivering- whether it was from fright or sadness Fret knew not- but the ferret truly did not want to know.

"Don't worry." He patted the beaver's webbed footpaw- because it was close to paw. "We'll be fine." Who was he kidding? They were doomed! "I just need to find a way to sneak out..." And then get caught again. Maybe it'd be bats again, or another tribe of toads... Or a snake...

Butch nodded his head vigorously, and wiped his eyes (thankfully he disn't use Fret for this this time). "You're wight. We'll be fine. We just need to escape."

There was a long pause wherein Fret continued pacing and Butch tweedled his claws.

"So... how do we do dat?"

Fret sighed, despair already nagging at him to give up. "I have no idea." But he was never the most obedient of beasts anyways.

"Maybe dee bats will know." Offered the baby beaver.

"Bats." Fret spat, his fur bristling in rage. "I'm here because of bats." And if he ever saw that bat again he'd claw it's stupid face off... _Ferret smashed to bits, bits, bits_... He's give it bits...

"Dee bats are nice. But dey don't talk a lot." Butch explained, as he waddled over to a wall of ice. Gently, he slid it open to reveal a dozen or so glum-faced and grumpy bats. They were of all shapes and sizes, but not one of them seemed to have slept well- and about half looked like they hadn't eaten well either.

"Hello Butch, Butch, Butch." One that had-been-fat murmured. "Hello vermin, vermin."

One look at this group of unhappy-looking beasts was all Fret needed to know that they would not be helpful at all...

* * *

Bartok had been relieved, overjoyed and nothing short of ecstatic as he told the chief and his clan of his lucky find. "I'm alive, alive, alive!" He had repeated, in joy and disbelief. He'd gotten his daily rations, he'd been about to tuck into them and then maybe have a nap to make up for the morning's stress...

And then the bear had roared and his heart had filled with dread.

It stood there at the foot of the waterfall, in all it's mighty glory, like a monster from a dream. Thick black fur covered it's hide- strands as long and as tough as rope. Thrice as big as a badger. Twice as wide. With claws like spears and teeth like swords. It walked in the most strangest and terrifying of fashions- stiffly as if on stilts. Yet despite the awkward way it moved, it moved swiftly and it's every footstep (as loud as a gong to Bartok's flattened ears) sent terror through the heart of every bat.

"Have you not received," Chief Snap began, standing tall and brave as all around him cowered. His two large daughters stood behind him, shaking from ear-tip to talon. "Your daily tribute, tribute, tribute?"

"We- _I-_ have!" Boomed the bear, it's voice as loud as a crack of thunder. "But we- _I-_ grow sick of bats and vermin! The beast you brought before me today was worth less than a rag doll! Nothing more than a morsel! I demanded _NOURISHMENT!"_ Said the bear, stiffly marching closer to the waterfall. "You brought me barely a snack!"

Some bats whimpered, some began to plead for mercy, some hid themselves even further in the crowd.

"We- _I_ \- will tear your mountain down if I have to bat! We will take your young and kill them! We will slaughter anybeast that flies! You will find no mercy- not even that of a swift death! You will give us- _me_ \- the grubs I demand! Or you will all suffer! Is that understood?" The roaring, already loud and terrifying, seemed to rise in volume- until all the bats were nodding.

"Good! You have until sun down!"

"W-we need more time, time, time!" Snap pleaded. "I- I need, need, need..."

"Sun down!" The bear repeated. "And I will take a bat now. As payment for today's failure."

Bartok felt the eyes upon him, and tried his hardest to vanish. No, no, no... This could not... No, he had... the ferret... He panicked, he tried to flap away- but there was no escaping the desperation of his fellow bats. None could look him in the eye as they beat him to the ground and pinned his wings. "No! I found the, the, the- I can't no, no, no, no, no!"

The last thing he remembered was the bear's cold paw squeezing shut around him.

* * *

 _Footnote: You all probably understood Momchillo's behaviour this chapter but I still feel I should summarize something to do in part with his guilt. In the first scene he winds up thinking about how, if Fret is dead, it'd be his fault. He has slowly been coming to realize why Fret is as he is and indeed who Fret is- he's also learned thanks to the bat sisters how much of a jerk he is/was. Think of it like being really dirty, and then suddenly looking at your reflection and realizing 'I've been like this all along?' This happens pretty quickly for him, so he is perhaps exaggerating his part in all this to some extent. He had nothing to do with Fret ending up with the toads for example. But he still blames himself because he feels guilty about all the bullying. He's overcompensating._

 _And Butch! Another new character (too many... too many characters...) Think of him like a more stable Fret with Bork-ish proportions (irl beavers are badger sized, wolverines are roughly badger sized too sooo) The purpose of Butch? Well you'll see.  
_

 _Ah, Bartok, not out of the frying pan yet. I'm not going to say anything now but you may be a little bit confused by everything that's going on now so I'll just say don't worry, everything will make sense in the next chapter!_


	59. The Butch Break-Out

**A/N: Waycaster: Yeah, Momchillo still has a lot of lessons to learn, but don't we all? XD**

 **AlexFalTalon: Yup, Added Alliteral Appeal is always a plus. I agree, we need some more deaths! Buuut maybe not yet hehehehe...**

 **One-Eye: Last Chapter's title was courtesy of Waycaster.**

 **Abrahem: Spot on about Butch's role in the story. So were you Waycaster. Yeah I told them about the podfic but they weren't tooo interested XD I've started some sketches on the frogs but havent uploaded them yet. Amphibians are hard XD But yeah, there are a few good scenes hehehe**

 **Sack Redwall? Hmmm, we shall see... But nah. I think I worded that badly 'based on parts of' Theon, hence the similarities. Fret sacking Redwall *was* an alternate story option though. Which I want to Drabble... some day soon... Fret is a mix and match of sorts. He's Veil, he's vermin, he's Theon, he's got bits of me etc- but he is his own character as well. Thanks! Summer is off to a fine start over here.**

 **Keldor: Ah yes, we all want Fret to just succeed already, don't we? Well... I can't say much here but there is a purpose to me continously tormenting him XD As you can probably tell, this chapter is about his escaping hehehe**

 **So without further adooooo, I give you the next chapter!**

 **Also- if any of you are tired of Fret and Momchillo (for now anyways) please tell me what you'd rather I write. Because my 'interspaced' arcs are... not *that* interspaced are they XD?**

* * *

"No." Fret hissed under his breath, rubbing away a half-formed plan of escape. Then, because all his other plans had been similarly infuriating, he kicked at the ice he'd been drawing on. "No! No! No! No! No!" Such was his anger that soon he was hopping up and down in panic-fueled rage.

"Save your breath vermin, vermin." An old bat advised. "And your energy too, too."

" _No!_ " Fret snapped, beginning to pace. There was a lump in his insides, as if his organs had tied themselves together. A dozen or so boulders filled the pit of his stomach, and try as he might he could not get the feeling to go away. He was not cold, but always on the verge of shivering. He was not crying but could feel a storm of tears rising to his eyes.

 _What did I ever do to deserve this?_

"Fretch?" Came the baby beaver's voice as the ferret continued pacing.

 _So I pushed my uncle overboard- he can swim! And I wouldn't even have been there if Martin the Warrior didn't chase me to him._

"Fretch?"

 _I never wanted to polish his stupid sword, and I never asked to live in his abbey. I should have run away when I had the chance._

"Fretch?"

 _And the Skipper tried to kill me too! And he nearly did. Momchillo came close with the snake-_

"Fretch. What's wong?" Butch's voice finally penetrated the ferret's mental barrier.

"N-nothing's wrong." The ferret lied. "Just trying to figure out how to escape."

The timing was inconvenient for at that moment Chief Slimegut entered, although he did not seem angry in the slightest.

"Har-har! What did I tell you boys? A true warlord! Trying to escape. That's the spirit vermin! Try and wiggle out of this one." The Toad Chief smiled widely, and Fret shivered. "You won't find a ways out, but it'll give me and the boys some fun."

Fret barely held it all together. If he broke down now he was doomed. They'd know it was an act and nothing would stop them from having their sadistic way with him. His lip quivered and his stomach squirmed but no other motion was made on his part.

"He's scared." Longtongue taunted, drawing close. Fret's heart thumped frantically, not that it made any difference doing so. "Look at the little wretch, sweat all over him." The amphibious fool poked the ferret's chest, realizing too late that it was in fact snot.

This prompted Fret to snicker. He got a glare for it but that was better than he'd expected.

"He ought to be scared." The Chief walked over to where Butch was sitting down. Cruelly, he twisted a toe, a mocking leer glued to his face. "This ones mummy's yet to show up. Where's your ransom Butch? Where's your ransom?" He twisted sharply, until Butch began to cry softly.

Fret felt an inner rage swell up within him, and for a moment he was sure he'd conjure fire.

"His daddy's a warlord." The fat toad continued. "Warlords are busy beasts. Mayhaps he won't find the time to respond. Like I said vermin, you're not going home any time soon."

"We're done chief." Another toad said, indicating a freshly-chained bat.

"Good!" Said Slimegut, releasing the toe. One more he addressed Fret. "I hope your quarters are befitting your mighty heritage."

Fret did not dare glare at him, despite his urge to do so.

"If you prefer we could keep you in a little cage instead." The toad winked, his chins shaking from the effort of keeping in a hearty laugh. "Might be easier to escape from, don't you think?"

"How about a sack at the bottom of the river?" Longtongue added.

"How about a bear belly?"

"How about _my_ belly?"

Shrieking with laughter, the Yellowbellies left the chamber and pushed the boulder back over the exit.

The ferret felt his ears rise and fall in time to his breathing. The toads were threatening him, trying to cow him into submission with horrible fates. Yet he knew that if his lie fell apart his fate would be much worse. He had to escape. He had to escape. He had to- Panic took over and before he could stop himself he let out a whimper.

Before he was quite sure what was going on, he was sitting next to Butch. Evidently it was the beaver's turn to comfort, and as much as he hated comforting he needed it right now. It helped that this comfort did not come in the form of a bear hug. The beaver gently stroked his back, like one would a pet. It was demeaning of course, but it stopped him shivering and the lump in his stomach seemed to weigh less.

"It's okay Fretch. Dey won't huwt you if you are nice." Sniffed the bigger beast.

"They hurt you." The ferret snapped, seething again. The Chief would pay for that. If Clogg showed up to save him (unlikely but not exactly impossible) Fret would make sure he knew _exactly_ who had mistreated him. And Butch. As gruesome a sight as a flayed frog was, they deserved it.

"Dey didn't huwt me much." Butch replied, his eyes wobbling with tears.

"They'll pay for it." Fret hissed. If Snakeskin was alive and by any chance managed to rescue him, he'd make sure to crush Slimegut under the biggest boulder in the Lands of Ice and Snow... "When I escape-"

"But dey will huwt you." Now the beaver was clinging tightly to him. Fret could feel his whole form quivering. It was a bit like an earthquake really, only softer. But also more uncomfortable.

"Butch. I've been hurt my whole life." Fret felt the beaver's arms tighten. "I've been bullied and beaten my whole life." He wheezed, unable to stop. "Slimegut and his amphibian fools are just the latest in a long line of meanbeasts trying to make me miserable." Butch shivered ever harder. "Besides. If I stay here." His ears drooped. "I'm doomed."

"The toads want us alive boy, boy." One of the bats said, trying to shake the new arrival awake. "If Chief Snap, Snap, realizes the bear's just a trick he'll come down with fury and vengeance- but he can't do that if the toadies threaten to kill us, us, us."

"What bear?" Fret demanded, twisting round in Butch's grip so that he was facing said bat.

The bats shared looks of simmering rage. "The toads _are_ the bear, bear." A fat one said, contemptuously. "They stand on sticks and then one atop the other and pretend to be a bear, bear."

"And who's Snap?"

"Our Chief, Chief."

Fret went on, slowly- his anger boiling beneath the surface of his skin. "And why would he give a tail about what happens to _me?_ In case you didn't know, I'm only here _because_ of a bat!"

None of the bats dared to look at him but a door, once opened, was hard to close again.

"They think I'm a warlord's son! What do you think happens when they realize I lied to them? You think they'll keep me around for long?" Fret (with difficulty) prized himself free of the frightened Butch and resumed pacing with interest. He had not ranted in a long time, usually it was Constance he put all his troubles to, but he didn't get to choose that now and there was no stopping. "They'll hurt me anyways, and I'd rather they do it when they think I'm important enough to keep alive!" Fret growled and tugged at his ears. "There has got to be a way out of this place!"

The bats watched him pace frantically. Anybeast could see desperation written all over him, but none of them had any escape routes to offer. A particularly scrawny one thought that perhaps reassurance was a fair alternative.

"You may not be a warlord's son, but you're important to somebeast yes, yes?"

Fret paused momentarily. He felt his face twist into anger, yet felt a wave of sadness wash over him, but held back the tears. "No." He squeaked, his voice suddenly weak. "And even if I d-do, they're too far to help." He quivered on the spot, before resuming his pacing, this time less frantically and dragging his tail along the ice. "B-but y-yeah." He swallowed. "I'm on my own..."

Butch had him in a hug before he knew it. The beaver held him like a stuffed animal and tight against his chest. "You're impowdant to me Mister Fretch!" The oversized dibbun reassured him.

Fret couldn't say anything, both because he was squished against said dibbun (who did indeed, smell like flowers) and because he was at a loss for words.

When Butch eventually _did_ release him all Fret could say was a weak (because most of the air had been squeezed out of him). "Thank you."

There came a groan, and all turned to see the latest captive sitting up. Bartok blinked back into reality. At the sight of his fellow sacrificed bats, he blinked. "I-is this the Great Sky?"

"This is a cave, cave." A particularly old bat corrected.

"B-but the bear, bear!" Bartok said, flapping to his feet in sudden panic. "I- I saw him take you! And you, you! And eat y-"

"There is no bear, bear." The fat bat said, scowling. "It's a bunch of toads, toads."

"Toads, toads?" Bartok repeated, confused.

"Toads, toads." The old bat affirmed.

"B-but-" Before he could finish his sentence Fret, who had been creeping up on him, pounced.

"Sorry bat, bat, bat!" The ferret cried, as he brought his fists down upon the larger beast. His claws dug viciously into the back of Bartok's head. "Bat smashed to bits -bi-ack!"

The ferret was pulled off by the fat bat, who pinned him to the ground with little force or effort. But then again, sitting did not require much effort.

"Get off!" Fret snapped, trying to claw himself free of the aerial mammal's girth and back to his vengeance.

"No, no, no! Sorry, sorry, but you can't hurt our clan, clan, clan."

Bartok flapped to his talons, spun round and went pale at the sight of Fret.

"He pushed me off a waterfall!" Fret wheezed, raking the ice in his bid for freedom.

"I-I had to, to. The bear, bear- I mean toad, toad, wanted to eat-"

"So you gave him _me!_ "

"Well it was me or you, you, you. So yes, yes. Sorry, so-"

"And you _laughed!_ " Fret's growl cut him off. Whether the ferret was red in the face from anger or lack of air, nobeast knew, but it was most likely air, even if Fret said otherwise. He managed to pull himself out from under the bat- but found Butch had taken over the job of holding him back. Thankfully the beaver decided not to sit on him, but that was hardly much of an improvement- especially since Butch's alternative had been to step on him.

"So..." A little bat with a very nasally voice started. "You were talking about how nobeast loves you, you, you?"

It took Fret a moment to realize he was the creature being addressed. "I never said that." Was his immediate snap. _Even if it's true_ , his first thought. "What I said was that the only beasts that _might_ care are leagues away." He had no idea where Clogg was, but the rat was definetly farther south than he was. Constance was at Redwall most likely, or searching for him. As happy as the latter thought was, he thought the former more likely. Momchillo might've been his best bet for rescue, but he had no idea where the mouse was either. Or their guide, the stoat.

"Where are you from?" Butch once more drew him back into reality, and free of his footpaw.

Seeing no reason to lie, and because there were no toads in earshot, Fret spat out the truth. "Redwall."

Butch, oblivious to his tone, banged his tail against the ice in excitement. "Redwall _Abbey_? I've heard so many stories aboutch itch! My nana always reads to me aboutch Martin de Warrior and Deyna the Daggerung! Are you really from Redwall? Whatches itch like dere?"

"I've heard of Redwall too, too." Bartok added as the dibbun went on about about all he'd ever heard.

Fret glowered at him. " _Everybeast_ has heard of it. Redwall, where any and all of good heart are welcome..." He trailed off grumpily. This was a subject too sensitive to discuss amongst strangers.

The others were silent, save and except for Butch who continued to chatter about everything he'd ever heard of Redwall.

"I heard Martin De Warrior dropped a lamp on dis big bad rat! An-and dere was dis cat and owl! And dey wentch off on a boatch! And den dere was dis place wid all de tunnels. Slamerandashtronch! And den it crashed! And den-"

"I've got it!" A light went off inside Fret's head, as if a firefly had buzzed in. Slipping out of Butch's grip, the ferret scampered over to the jar of ice, which seemed to grow from the floor. He placed his claws upon the cold surface and stared at it in wonder. The glow of a hundred fly posteriors was beautiful, and sent shimmering shadows across the walls of ice. But beauty was not what he was interested in. "Butch, I need you to chew this open for me."

The beaver cocked his head to the side. "Why?"

"Because this is my- _our_ way out!" He hastily corrected. Butch still look confused, so he explained further. "Look." He tapped at the ice. "There are fireflies inside of this. Where do you think they came from?"

"Maybe de fwaggies put dem dere." Butch offered, suddenly shaking.

"They'd have eaten them." Fret countered, remembering the discussion of grubs and bugs he'd heard earlier. "So the flies got in here, which means this has got to be a tunnel."

"It could be a dead end, end, end." The small bat said. "I noticed it too but I didn't want to risk getting stuck, stuck, stuck."

"Most of us wouldn't fit anyways, ways." Bartok pointed out.

"Most of us don't have to." Fret countered. "Open the tunnel and I'll go. If I get stuck the toads'll pull me out because I'm valuable." _Or they'll leave me to die._ "But if I am right this should take me through more tunnels. If I were to get out and tell your Chief-"

"If, if, if." The old bat shook his head. "You're risking your life, life, life."

"I know that!" Fret snapped, squashing desperately at his mounting fear. "B-but I might b-be dead anyways. B-better to d-die free, right?" Of course not dying was by far the best option...

"You don't even want to do it, it." Bartok pointed out.

"I do!" The ferret snapped.

"Don't lie, lie, lie."

Fret growled. "I'm going with or without your help. So I don't need you anyways. Any of you. And _especially_ you!" He pointed a claw at the grey bat.

"I'll help." Butch said slowly. "B-but please d-don't die."

"I won't. I promise." Fret lied, and found himself in a hug again. This was just getting ridiculous...

"And you pwamise you'll come back?" The beaver asked, sniffling.

"I..." Fret returned the hug, not entirely sure why he was doing that, but in any case it seemed to stop Butch's shivering. "I promise."

As soon as they broke apart (which was not soon, Butch hugged for humiliatingly long periods of time) the beaver got to work. The assorted bats and singular ferret watched in wonder as the young beast started from the top of the jar, his incisors biting into the ice. Chip by chip, the ice fell around it like a miniature snowstorm, until in the end the top came off.

The fireflies, no longer held back by a wall of ice, flew into the air. Hundreds upon hundred of them erupted from it, like fire from a volcano. It was a light show of spectacular proportions. Their orange glow bounced from wall to wall, and against the pale blue of the ice they looked like miniature suns, or stars plucked from heaven.

"Wooow!" Squealed Butch, his great scaly tail bouncing upon the ground in excitement, his eyes wide with wonder.

The only beast who had not been paying attention to the spectacle, was Fret, who scrambled up the ice to peer down the tunnel. Ice was all he saw, a slick wall of ice, rendered dark blue by the light above.

He swallowed audibly, and his gulp seemed to echo down the abyss. Was it too late to call off the plan? What would the toads do about the newly-opened tunnel? Would they punish Butch?

Fret growled, and pulled himself further up, so that he could enter the tunnel feetpaw-first. His fear should never have mentioned Butch. The toads would hurt Butch no matter what. They needed no other reason than their own entertainment. And he would not sit idly by and watch the beaver suffer. Even if he had sneezed on him... and was a huggy person... and had an annoying accent...

Butch gently placed a paw around his scruff, and gently lowered him into the tunnel.

"You d-d-don't have to do this, this, this." Bartok stammered.

Fret would have snapped at him, but Butch was quicker to reply.

"It's f-fine if you don't wantch t-t-to do itch." The beaver's eyes were wide and worried, but Fret had made his mind up and stretched his paws to either side of the ice.

"See you later then." He tried to smile, but the only emotion on his face was fear. "On the count of three Butch."

The beaver babe nodded.

"One."

 _Find Momchillo, Snakeskin or the bats._

"Two."

 _Come back to save Butch._

"Threeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeee!"

The ferret slid out of sight, his counting becoming more and more distant until all the others could hear was a distant _SPLASH!_


	60. Why Be Pirates, Pirates? Because We Arr!

**A/N: Waycaster: The weight of responsibility? Fret's worst nightmare XD I wouldn't necessarily say he's taking a leadership role. Perhaps volunteering as a sacrifice is a better way of putting it?**

 **One-Eye: He's running alright!**

 **AlexFalTalon: Bartok. Yes. I don't really like him either... And er- yeah. Perhaps too much fluff? What do you think?**

 **Abrahem: That's something that always kind of irked me. I mean, they're on the same side obviously but I wish there were more personality clashes. There are a few notable ones though. Like Brome and Felldoh. Your chapter advice is pretty good! I've kiiinda followed it. I mean I would've followed it completely, but then I decided Remnants was right and I couldn't just leave Fret wherever he is (lake is a pretty good guess) so I stuck his bit here at the end.**

 **I have uploaded a few of Fret and Butch (and FINALLY!) one of Grey Claw! I will continue to draw (got a whole list now- some for other fics too) but likely won't be able to upload anything for the next... week or so... Cannibal escape? I'll do that too. Any and all suggestions are much appreciated!**

 **Speaking of art, MathLuk (here known as Waycaster) has uploaded a cover for BaW on his devianart.**

 **Also er- this might seem a bit random, but we've discussed about about you in the Redwall Forum. Mostly me and Seb... deciding how to make you join... So er- will you join us in the chaos of the cellars?**

 **Sebias of Redwall: Glad you liked it! (The art of repeating cliffhangers returns!) And also glad you found Fret and Butch funny (hehehehe)**

 **Keldor: It is. Very cold XD**

 **Remnants: Your advice is also appreciated. So yes. You and Abrahem are credited with the format of this chapter. And the next.**

 **A bunch of other credits are due here as well! Bloodface and Clawtail are characters devised by One-Eye the Wildcat (because I was too lazy to come up with canon fodd- I mean corsairs! on my own). Ripple Sharkbreath is the property of Sebias of Redwall. One more of One-Eye's characters will show up in the next chapter.**

 **Oh and we meet the Manywhiskers who has had a lot of behind-the-scenes changes done by me... and well mostly Keldor XD So I kiiinda credit him as Keldor's creation.**

 **If anyone else wants to jump on the 'create cannon fodd-I mean corsair!' train you are welcome to do so. I reserve the right to reject characters (we have too many) and they are unlikely to have much of a role/character progression (definetly nothing like what Momchillo and Sharpfur are going through...). But they can be developed characters with complex backstories and whatnot. Optional. Just so yall know about it.**

 **Also a shout-out to lionkingfactsguy3. Because he wanted one and is a good friend :)**

* * *

"Straighten that silk one more time." Clogg was hissing to the fake Whimper. "And I'll strangle ye with it. Now, straighten up, chest out, like that, yes. Struuut. Good!" The rat rubbed his paws. "Now remember, both of ye." His one eye darted from Bork to the new Whimper with frightening speed. "Speak only when spoken te, do not mention the other Whimper-" He fixed his eyes upon Bork. "Do not get drunk and don't puke either. Be respectful te the other Captains but don't be a pushover neither. Nobeast respects a pushover."

"So if somebeast hits me." Klis began slowly, his eyes narrowed in concentration. "I'm supposed te hit them back, right?"

"Yes." Clogg allowed, after a moment of hesitation. "Just as hard unless they outrank ye."

The ferret continued thinking outloud. "But I'm in charge, aren't I? Don't I outrank all of ye?"

"Not me ye don't." Clogg said, flattening his chest fur and swapping his sea-beaten cape for a newer, shinier one. "An' we ain't in the Snowlands no more. Ye outrank nobeast ye can't throw around."

"I could throw ye around pretty easily." Bork chuckled as he played with the rat's tail. The wolverine's seasickness had subsided enough for him to be allowed at a feast. Which delighted the wolverine. He loved food and had loved it since infancy.

"Me an' almost everybeast else Bork." The rat growled, pulling his tail free of the larger beast's footpaw and once more straightening his chest fur. "But ye can't take down a whole crew by yerself."

"I'm big." Bork pointed out, trying once more to pin the rat tail. The faux Whimper looked on, adjusting his silken wrappings.

This time Clogg was ready for it, and sidestepped the paw. "Ye are. Well noticed. But I've seen bigger wildcats. Give or take ten seasons Bork and there won't be a beast alive that could push ye around. But ye have ten seasons left te wait. So, be patient. Anybeast important hits ye, watch an' wait. They'll grow old, ye'll grow strong, ye'll snap 'em like a twig. _Clear?_ "

Bork grinned and nodded in comprehension, his mind filled with the glorious thoughts of a full stomach and victory. His father might even be proud of him! Snapping beasts like twigs was certainly a very Kingly thing to do.

Clogg turned back to the faux Whimper. The rat smacked his ear with prejudice.

"Forget the silk! It looks _fine!_ Anyhow yer a warlord's son not a princess."

"I know that." The ferret muttered grumpily. "But..." He stared around the ship to make sure nobeast was within earshot, and leaned in close to whisper. "What if they notice?"

Clogg's expression did not change. "Notice what?"

"That..." The ferret was hesitant, and now the reason for all the silk-shifting became apparent. Much like the first Whimper, this beast was scared. Unlike the first, he pretended otherwise to be confident. "That I... ain't... him."

"Who's 'him'? Never heard of this beast before. What are they doing on my ship? Hey you!" He pointed a claw at one of the mute rats Longclaw had lent to him for the journey. "There's a beast called 'him' somewhere on this ship! A stowaway! I want them in my cabin before I return. Oh, and tie 'him' up, will ye?"

The rat nodded, not showing any kind of confusion at the Captain's command, and left to do Clogg's bidding.

"There, we'll have this 'him' dealt with by tomorrow." His voice dropped to a whisper. "Ye don't need te _act_ like anybeast, just be yerself but quieter." Coughing slightly, the rat went back to his normal volume. "Whimper, Bork, follow me. It's time for a feast."

"One more question." Bork stood up and smacked his ever-impressive belly to disguise the underlying tone of nervousness present in his voice. "Since we don't have a large food supply and all..." He'd heard some grown rats complaining about it once at breakfast. Apparently if he kept eating at the pace he did, they'd have to ration the whole ship. And there was no prospect more terrifying for Bork then going on a diet. "How much are we supposed te eat?"

The faux-Whimper facepawed. "An' for a second I thought it might be somethin' important."

Bork felt his ears droop and a growl build up within him. It _was_ an important question! Eating was an art form like no other. But then again, what should he have expected? His father had never been fond of his eating tendencies.

 _"Aren't you fat enough?"_ He'd said, more than once. It didn't help that Flayface and Spitteeth always told on him. His father's cronies. Stupid foxes. Telling everybeast how he was stealing from the kitchens... Perhaps that was why he preferred the first Whimper... The smaller ferret had never minded sharing in his stolen food, and Bork (despite the fact that it meant less cupcakes and he loved cupcakes) had enjoyed sharing. Plus, it was a convenient way of getting rid of flavors he didn't like. Whimper hadn't had many preferences.

Bork was not surprised that Clogg had replaced him so swiftly, the rat had an important job to do on the orders of his father and those orders required a Whimper. But if he had been King he'd have waited for the real one to turn up again.

 _"Ye look scared? What's scary Whimper? Do I scare ye?"_ His head had hurt much at the time but he remembered the words clearly. He'd remembered the horrible sinking feeling in his gut. His only mate... scared of him... Well he was big. And he had made a snowbeast out of him once. But fear was unjustified! Whimper had no reason to be scared! He had picked the ferret up, determined to reassure him that there was nothing to be scared of. He would never hurt his only friend (of course he wouldn't have said that, or called Whimper his only friend- that was bad King ettiwhatsit- but he'd have _meant_ it).

Then all his drinking had caught up to him and knocked him to the ground. By the time he woke up, Whimper was gone. Likely hiding somewhere.

 _Hiding from me..._ Nobeast beforepaw had ever given him a reason to care enough to make up for something, so he wasn't exactly experienced in it. But Bork would make it up to him! He would bring the ferret back something shiny- and something small enough for his little paws. The ferret had in one winter been a better mate to him than his father had in ten. When he became King of the Lands of Ice and Snow, he'd make him his Right Paw. Then they could rule forever and ever, making snowbeasts and eating cupcakes.

Clogg's reply to his question dragged him out of his happy thoughts.

"As much ye can. The Dreaded is hostin' us all, coz his ship's the biggest, an' frankly I don't care much if his crewbeasts wind up starvin'." He winked up at the grinning wolverine. "Eat 'em out of house and home."

Bork grinned, his tail wagging behind him like an over-excited dibbun's. Oh how he hoped there were cupcakes... Pity the real Whimper wasn't here to share them with...

"Wait, yer serious?" Klis looked surprised. "But aren't they our allies?"

Clogg rolled his eye. "Yer ally one day Whimper, is yer enemy the next. I'd rather fight his beasts when they're starvin'. Now enough time wastin'!"

The rat spun on his heel and barked out a few orders. Bork was too busy dreaming of a luscious strawberry cupcake to pay attention properly and the next thing he knew, the Dreaded's ship was sailing besides them.

The Black Plague, or Dark Plague or whatever Clogg's ship was called, was large. The Dreaded's vast ship (appropriately styled 'The Beaded Death' was big enough in Bork's mind, to be a small island.

A fat wooden plank was placed between the ships to form a ramp. Clogg scrambled up it with ease, and upon reaching the top, was met with cheers, applauds and various greetings. Klis followed swiftly, and was met with similar greetings, though less enthusiastic. By the time Bork got to the top, nobeast but Clogg and Klis noticed. The pair helped him with the last couple of inches, and shakily he placed both feetpaw on the boat.

"Ye alright?" The rat asked. He glanced back to make sure the other captains weren't looking. "Stick yer head over the side if there's any emergencies."

Bork nodded, his face already pale green. And he hadn't even eaten anything yet...

Clogg opened his mouth to say something else, but then Scringewhiskers joined them. "Darkhide said I should tag along, that okay with you Captain?"

Clogg waved him away. "No! Go and have some grog or somethin'." The ferret looked mildly disappointed. The rat turned back to Bork and whispered. "If ye prefer ye can go and rest up a bi-"

"Clogg," Klis interrupted, tugging at the rat's cloak. "What is that?" The ferret pointed a claw at a very large advancing rat.

Before any reply could be given, the beast was upon them. Nearly as large as Bork (which was impressive for a rat), and covered from whiskertip to tail in beads of red and green, this was the Captain known to all as The Dreaded One.

"Ye finally showed up I see! Bin waitin' Clogg. Long time no see."

"Yes." Was all the smaller rat said in reply. Then a small, sly smile spread across his face. "I didn't see ye at Longclaw's feast. Busy raidin' someplace?"

"Only the slavepits, hur hur. Ye should see wot some of 'em kin do in bed."

Bork gave Clogg a quizzical look, but the one-eyed rat payed him no mind. And probably wouldn't have answered the question anyways...

"New beads as well. A yeller one, eh? Someplace far south?"

"Far west!" The other corrected, smacking his well-built chest. "I take it ye are Marik's son." He added, nodding in Klis' direction.

The ferret, who had been wrinkling his nose in disgust (the Dreaded smelled foul even by vermin standards), smiled awkwardly when he noticed (which just so happened to be when Clogg trod on his tail). "I-I see my reputation precedes me." He bowed and was nearly sick at the sight of he rat's toenails. "It ain't much compared t-te yers of course, but then again, wh-who's is?"

Turning back to Clogg the beaded rat jabbed a finger at him. "I likes this one. And aha! Longclaw's latest whelp. Fatter than the other two, I see."

Bork's mood soured instantly. If this rat thought he could call him fat and get away with it...

"Smarter too." Interrupted the Black Plague's Captain. "An' hungrier. Now where's this feast ye invited me to?"

Not on to be outdone, the humongous vermin spun round and shouted at the surrounding decks.

Clogg turned to Bork as an array of delicacies (well, as far as pirate cooking was concerned) were brought up from the lower decks and the Dreaded stomped off to greet somebeast else.

"He's a beast ye don't want te mess with."

"But he called me fat!" Bork growled, sharp claws stretching out from his chubby fingers. They were not too long but each was as sharp as a razor.

"An' he can get away with it. Ye know what he'd do te ye if ye picked a fight with him?"

"What?" Asked Klis, sticking his head over the boat in case he was sick. "Kiss his toenails? I can't imagine anythin' worse."

"He can do worse." Was all Clogg said. "Claws down Bork. Yer here te eat, remember? But if we ever wind up fightin' the Dreaded, ye have my permission te send him to Hellgates."

Bork nodded, and sheathed his claws. "One day-"

"Ye'll snap him like a twig." Clogg said grinning. "Cheer up Bork. There's muffins."

The wolverine's eyes drifted to a platter of muffins, his jaw fell open and his mouth watered.

"Bork!" Klis snapped, wiping drool off his headfur. But the wolverine hadn't heard him and barged past the ferret, determined to get his paws on the sweets.

The faux-Whimper was not the only ferret he barged past. Although the second one, a rather tall ferret, pressed a cutlass to his throat."Watch where yer goin' welp! Step on my tail again and I'll gut ye!"

Instead of being scared off, as most beasts and especially vermin would be, Bork brushed the blade aside with his claws and glared down at the ferret. A big beast, no doubt, but smaller than the young wolverine. He opened his mouth to retort, but found that Clogg had a habit of interrupting him.

"Ripple! Nice te see ye matey! Bork, this is Captain Ripple Sharkbreath. Sharkbreath, this is-"

"Bork, son of Longclaw, Prince of the Lands of Ice and Snow and a clumsy fool." The ferret spat, sheathing his cutlass.

The young wolverine turned to his de-facto chaperone, a pleading look in his eyes. "Can I hit _him_?"

Clogg considered this question for a moment before shrugging.

Before Klis could even _ask_ what had happened (having been too preoccupied with the drool-wiping to notice), Ripple Sharkbreath was stumbling about, clutching at his head. Bork looked _extremely_ satisfied.

Clogg went on, as if nothing had happened. "That weasel over there with the short sword goes by Bloodface. He's yer typical grunt really. See the fat fox over there?" He pointed at an evil-looking (and indeed fat) vulpine with blades attached to his tail. "Clawtail. He's nasty. Best be careful around him. There' a wildcat here too. Goes by One-Eye. Quite young an' I don't know him too well, but ye best stay out of his way jus' in case. I heard that whoever half-blinded him-"

"You are forgetting somebeast Cloggo!" Came a small, high-pitched voice behind the three.

The rat, who had been smiling, frowned immediately. "I was wonderin' why everythin' was so peaceful..." As one they turned to this new voice.

It was a cat. But not a cat or type of cat Bork had ever seen before. Barely taller than Clogg (who was small to begin with, at least, when next to the young wolverine). At least a hundred whiskers stretched out from his nose in what easily could have been an impressive mustache, were they not as stiff and sharp as wires and spread all over his face like a spider's web.

He had an air of mischievous joy about him and a constant smirk plastered to his scarred face.

"Bork, Wimper. The Manywhispers. Or Manywhiskers. Depends on his mood." Clogg said, his voice dry and joyless.

"That's me!" The skinny little feline jabbed a thumbclaw towards himself. "I take it this handsome ferret is no other than Mad-Eye Marik's fabled son and heir?"

Klis stepped forwards, his ears ever-so-slightly red and his chest puffed up like a frog's throat. "I see my reputation precedes me-"

"It ain't much compared to mine of course, but then again, who's is?" The burly ferret blinked, and the Manywhiskers shot him a wink. "No need to get flustered Marik-son! Give or take a season and you'll be more famous than anybeast here!"

Klis went so red with pride that for a second Bork thought he wasn't breathing.

"And what have we here? My, my, my!" The Manywhiskers bowed low enough for his whiskers to touch the deck of the ship. "It is an _honour_ my Prince."

Bork went so red with pride that for a second he wasn't breathing!

Clogg merely looked on, disgruntled. "Thank ye for yer kind words. We're sure ye meant 'em. Bork, Whimper, if ye'd like-"

"I could give the two of you a tour of the ship!" The cat interrupted. "What a splendid idea Cloggo!"

Before the rat could interrupt, the Manywhiskers was besides him and he was in a side hug. "Swallowtail!" The miniature wildcat beckoned over a ferret. "Show these boys the ship while I catch up with my old buddy, old pal-"

"Ye have three seconds te let go of me!"

The cat did so immediately. "Swallow, I'm sure they'd love to see-"

"I don't want a tour." Bork said bluntly. "I'm here for the feast." Brushing past them he stomped over to where the muffin basket was, sat down and began to chew without another thought.

"Aye an'd Whimper here would like _me_ te give him the tour." Clogg added pointedly. "Right? Whimper?"

But Whimper was already out of earshot. Swallowtail had a paw around his shoulder and was talking in the sickly-sweet voice only one of Manywhiskers goons could manage. Klis however, judging from the way he was staring at her, had been caught, hook, line and sinker.

"Ah, young love!" Said the Manywhiskers, wiping away nonexistent tears from his eyes. "Isn't it beautiful?"

Clogg growled. "What do ye want?" He had never warmed up to the Manywhiskers. Well he had at first, it was easy for an inexperienced young rat to fall for the words of a flatterer, but it had not taken him long to realize that the supposed wildcat was the 'old matey, old pal' of everybeast. Including sworn enemies. He knew worryingly little about the black-pawed feline. He looked nothing like any wildcat Clogg had ever seen, and was small even for a runt of one.

The flatterer had the audacity to look hurt by the question. "Isn't it perfectly normal for somebeast to want the company of an old friend?"

"We ain't friends. Now answer the question." Clogg demanded, his eye narrowing.

"Fiiine. I just wanted to let you know that..." He leaned in close and whispered. "Somebeast's trying to do a mutiny against you."

Clogg's eye narrowed further. "Who?"

The Manywhispers drew back and shrugged. "Somebeast. I just know that you're in danger and thought you might like a warning."

"Ye know somebeast's plottin'. But ye don't know who it is." Came the rat's voice, dripping with skepticism. "Ye just so happened te be sittin' somewhere ye couldn't see, eh?"

"Couldn't have said it any better myself." Clogg was sorely tempted to break his obnoxious teeth. "Anywho, nice catching up to you Cloggo. Enjoy the feast. Oh, and avoid the gravy- Bloodface spat in it."

* * *

Swallowtail was an exceptionally pretty ferret maid. Quite tall, and with eyelashes as long as her (admittedly short) claws. She walked with a certain sway that worried and excited Klis in equal measure. On the one paw it was rather appealing. On the other it probably meant she had a malformed hip, or a battle wound. Perhaps somebeast had trod on her footpaw causing her to limp?

"An' this is ma cabin." She purred, and the tone of her voice made his fur stand on end. "A may be par' of the Manywhisker's crew, but 'e told me te stay aboard the Dreaded's boat. Not a bad captain, the beaded rat, but he sure as Hellgates _stinks!_ "

Klis chuckled. "You're right about that. Have ye seen his toenails?"

She tittered, and it made him blush. Why did it feel so hot all of a sudden?

Brushing past him she gently shut the door. "Yer a son of Mad-Eye Marik."

"I'm _the_ son of Mad-Eye Marik." He purred confidently, for Clogg was not here to tell him otherwise.

She smiled. "I've heard so much about ye. How yer jus' like yer dad- better with a sword though." She pointed at a cutlass hanging off the wall. "I bet ye could beat anybeast with somethin' like that."

"I- I could." He agreed, too busy staring at the cutlass in awe to notice that she was inching closer.

"That sword right there, is yers. It's Marik's sword." She said, coming uncomfortably close.

The younger ferret whistled. "It's mine _now_ ye mean! I- I mean... it's in yer cabin an' all-" Klis finally noticed what she was doing when she shoved him backward. He raised an eyebrow and fell into a conveniently-placed seat.. "What are ye doin'?"

"I've heard so much about ye Marik-son." She said, coming uncomfortably close. It was a different kind of hot now.

"I-I- what are ye-" Came his garbled voice, filled with nervous tension as she leaned in closer. His heart began to beat in worry.

"What's yer name Marik-son?" She purred, her paws beginning to unwind his precious silk.

"It's Kliiiiiiis." He purred as one of her paws reached behind him and stroked the back of his neck.

"Klis, eh?" She said, with a sly smile on her face. The stroking stopped abruptly. "Well let's see what ye can do." She grabbed at his silk, but looked surprised when he smacked her paw away. Momentarily she glared, and he looked away.

"S-sorry. It's j-just. N-nobeast touches me silk. A-an' I'd appreciate it if ye got off-

"Shhhh." She whispered, pressing a finger to his lips. "Let a gal have some-"

The door burst open abruptly, and in stomped Captain Clogg. It was hard to say which ferret looked more surprised. Klis swallowed audibly at the sight of the rat's narrowed eye. Swallowtail scowled.

"Can't ye see we're in the middle of-"

"Out." Was all the rat said in response. As soon as she left (pretty quickly, all things considered- his tone left no room for argument) he clapped. Slowly, with a smile on his face that could only be described as patronizing. "Well done Whimper. Well done Marik-son."

Klis had the grace to go a darker shade of red as he raised himself back into a normal sitting position.

"Ye are an idjit."

"I-I- w-when I sai-"

" _I can impress the Captains!_ Ye said. _Show 'em I'm exactly like Marik!_ Ye said-"

"I only ever said that te impress ye." He mumbled, staring at his feetpaws.

Clogg smacked himself and dragged a paw over his face. "Ye have got te be the biggest idjit on this ship. What do ye think she wanted, eh?"

Klis considered this for a great deal of time. "Er- not sure."

The rat laughed. "Lemme tell ye. She _could've_ wanted ye dead. Pretty easy te kill a beast as stupid as yew, don'tcha think? Alone. In a cabin. Unarmed."

"I've got me claws."

Clogg ignored him. "She _could've_ wanted ye te give her somethin'. Maybe even marry her. Except marryin' some random ferret coz she knows where te find yer sweet-spot is _exactly_ how ye loose the respect of everybeast around ye."

"I don't have a sweet-"

The rat did a rather excellent impression of Klis' purring. The ferret felt likely to spontaneously combust. Such was the heat of his shame.

"Ye have a lot te learn Whimper." He shook his head despairingly. Then he sighed and motioned for the ferret to budge up. It was a surprisingly large chair and the two of them could sit in it with ease. "Ye said ye wanted te impress me. Why?"

"Well... yer Marik's right-paw. Or at least ye were."

"An'?"

"Yer- well, ye knew what he was like an' all. An' I know I ain't really Whimper- but I am Marik's-"

"Not this again."

"Son! A-an' well, ye were his matey an-"

"Aye. I was. Ye wanna impress me?"

Klis nodded.

"Keep yer mouth shut an' don't go off by yerself, an' especially not with anybeast that isn't Bork or me. Ye got that?"

Once more, the burly ferret nodded. He was surprised when the rat ruffled the fur between his ears (annoyed of course, but if that was the extent of his punishment he considered himself lucky). "Good. Now let's head te the feast, Marik-son."

"I thought I wasn't related te him in any way, shape or form." He grumbled, rising to his feet.

Clogg scratched at his chin. "Yer not Whimper. That's all I know. But remember, te everybeast else-"

"I'm the runt. Yes." Klis said with a roll of his eyes. "Where'd he even go? An' ye know me an' him are half-brothers, right? Coz he's Marik's son an' I'm Marik's son an'"

Clogg tuned him out and rolled his eye. Where on earth had Darkhide found this one?

* * *

Fret regretted his bravery the second Butch let go. In truth, a small part of him had been hoping the baby beaver would be disobedient and cling to him. Perhaps it had been a large part of him. In any case he was sliding through the ice now. It was cold and wet, like the throat of a serpent (and he had far too memorable an experience with one of those) and offered no traction. Down and down he went, his ears ringing with the word 'three'.

 _SPLASH!_

Fret felt himself sink several feet, before splashing back to the surface with a gasp. The water was near-frozen and bit at his fur like a thousand shards of glass.

"Fretch?" Came the distant echo of Butch's voice.

"I'm f-f-fine!" The ferret shivered, desperately kicking at the water to keep his head above the surface. His eyes began to adjust to the near-darkness of the subterranean pit.

"Fretch?" Butch's voice came again, terrified.

The water was so cold and he was so intent upon his paddling that his voice, barely a squeak, had gone unheard.

"Misder Fretch? Fretch? _Fretch!?_ "

It broke his heart to hear the beaver babe's voice, but the ferret had other priorities, chief amongst them was getting out of the water.

He kicked and paddled against the icy surface, searching for land, or at least anything that would help him remain afloat. It was just his luck to land in a lake. Or a well. Or whatever this was.

 _Why did I have to be a hero?_ His paws found no purchase on the icy walls, there was no ground beneath his feetpaws and it was cold. _Risking my life for strangers._ In hindsight he should have waited for Clogg's potential rescue... Drowning was probably better than whatever the toads had planned for him, but now he was needlessly throwing his life away.

Desperately he paddled in the opposite direction. He needed a bank, a riverbed. Shallow waters, anything!

 _"The Gloomer lived in a deep, dark cavern beneath Kotir."_ Came Abbot Martin's voice from the back of Fret's own head. " _An eel._ " He went on with a different lesson. _"An eel is like a snake Matiya, but more aquatic."_

 _So many monsters..._ Fret felt his heart sink and patter as his numb paws met another cold wall with nothing to cling to. Not even a ledge for him to get his bearings from. The Gloomer had been killed by the Stormfin pike, but if such a greatrat lived in this darkness Fret was doomed, for he had no pike to come to his rescue. Eels were trickier. Martin the Warrior had met one, and it had of course tried to eat him. But the mouse had been clever and bargained with the beast, turning it on the frogs that had sacrificed him to begin with. _Pity I'm not Martin the Warrior..._ Any eel _he_ encountered would skip the needless chatter and just fill up on ferret.

The third wall he found was as empty as the others and Fret let out a whine. His limbs were beginning to ache. He was not a good swimmer and the water sent shivers down his spine. "This- this isn't fair! I'm _good!_ I'm doing good!" He was not sure who he was talking to, Butch likely couldn't hear him anyways. But it _was_ unfair. The goodbeasts got away with everything. Any monster they faced was easily slain. Any vermin they fought, defeated. And Fret, who had struggled so hard to get so far, found in the darkness that he was not a goodbeast. No matter what he did, life would always drag him down.

He felt like crying again. He was going to die! Panic came with the realization. It was the snake incident all over again. He was going to die, in the middle of nowhere, alone. He would be forgotten, not even a footnote in history. Constance would never cradle him again, his Nuncle would never give him another gift... Momchillo and Snakeskin would never find him. After a hundred seasons the ice would freeze around his skeleton, and he'd remain forever trapped. Alone, friendless, miserable.

He was so lost in thoughts of his demise, that he only realized he had dragged himself out of the lake when a small gust of wind set his fur on end.

Shivering, he was dragged back into reality. A tunnel lay before him, as dark as the lake. Fret shook himself as dry as he could and wringed his tail free of water.

"No time to mope around." He growled to himself, loathing his own petty weakness. "Find Snakeskin and Momchillo, rescue Butch, go home."

He set off at a run, guided by thoughts of some terrible monster ready to rise from the lake. On all fours he slunk along the darkness, sniffing desperately at the air to try and get a bearing. He could not hear anything beyond the splash of his paws against the wet ice and the frantic beating of his heart. He could not smell anything but his own stink- returning with force after his impromptu bath. Sweat slipped from his brow to the edge of his muzzle and dripped onto the ground as he ran.

 _I'm lost._ He thought to himself, and that thought was frightening enough to make him stop. The lake had just been the beginning. There were monsters within these walls too, and the frogs he was so desperately trying to evade. It would all be forfeit if he ran into them now. And then they'd store him in a tiny cage over a fire...

Shivering, the ferret continued at a more natural pace, trying to get his heartbeat steady. He would be fine. He would survive. Butch would be fine. And Snakeskin and Momchillo would be fine. If they had abandoned him they were already far out of harm's way...

"If. They're probably just tomorrow's sacrifice. Stupid bats." If only Butch hadn't pulled him off the grey one. Fret had a lot of inner anger to let loose and he could not think of a better target. Except maybe Slimegut... "Stupid frog. Marik's son. Just because I can write..." Mumbling seemed to give him strength, or at least, the familiar sound of his echo, once more around him, helped soothe his nerves. The sound of his pattering heart, did not!

* * *

 **Edit: I went back and toned it down a little as you suggested Abrahem. Er- I'm sorry if I weirded you out there. I er- didn't think I was going too far. Honestly not something I'm interested in. This isn't one of my interests. I'm sorry if I scared you off- I mean I was going for uncomfortable, but I suppose I went too far. Just wasn't sure what it 'reads' like. So I changed the Klis scene a bit. Hopefully it's better? I wanted to show that Klis is stupid** **. It's also a bit important for the plot- and you'll see why in the next chapter.**

 **Also, please do elaborate further on the drawings.**


	61. The Last Blueberry Muffin

**A/N: Greetings beloved readers!**

 **Waycaster: Character progression*, he's been developed for a while now. So... would you say it's an accurate comparison?**

 **AlexFalTalon: Yes the evil author will not confirm anything... yet... hehehehe!**

 **Abrahem: I liked your names! Although I did er- make up gender and species for them. So... we'll see your thoughts on them. Ironically I did have several ideas for that scene- and yeah the Theon and Yara thing came into play... buuuut there was another idea I had- was that Swallowtail... is... Thornflame! Now I'll leave you theorizing over whether or not I kept this idea... but we'll see... (honestly I think it's a little obvious...)**

 **A littlefinger type character makes a lot of sense... And it makes even more sense after this chapter. And that whole scene should make *even more* sense now. Spoiler, it's not *really* about Klis hehehe**

 **Alas... no new drawings this week. Well... I doodled of course but havent uploaded.**

 **Also yeah, I think I ought to mention that the name Klis came from Abrahem. It just *fits* him so of course I had to use it XD To be fair he's been in three chapters so far so there's still a lot of unknowns about him. Buuuut it was pretty obvious wasn't it XD?**

 **Keldor: Ah, if only I hadn't already put him through hellgates... (and yes, that is very much the kind of thing that would happen to him). And to be fair, Fret's intro had him sleeping through history XD Obviously he doesn't know about the darn details!**

 **Honestly... I was convinced I was interpreting him your way XD**

 **Sebias: To be fair even if Fret does kick the bucket around here *hides papers* there's still everyone else to deal with. He may be the titular character but he's only one of the protagonists (albeit I think, the 'main' one so to speak).**

 **Pretty long chapter here, but a lot of stuff happen in it sooo... I'll let you see for yourselves!**

 **Enjoy!**

Fret's dejected feetpaw continued to hit the ground. Well, they dragged along the ground at a slow, sluggish pace that would have made even a snail laugh, but when was he not the laughing stock? The going was not hard exactly- but he was shivering and there seemed to be no end to the ceaseless tunnels. They sloped at an angle, so that it was not entirely obvious that he was going up. But after Longclaw's similarly-built castle it was easy to spot here, where the tunnels before him were visibly at an angle.

After what felt like (and most likely was) a few hours of endless walking he came upon a fork. The tunnel split into two, identical and neat, paths. Indistinguishable form one another, save and except that one was on his left, and the other was on his right.

"What was it Momchillo said?" He demanded crossly of the walls around him. Then his mind began to whirl around and think. "Martin said that every turn from now on should be to the... left..." Well that advice had lead him directly into a snake (literally). Without another thought, Fret went right.

* * *

No amount of seasickness could have stopped Bork from eating to his heart's (if not his stomach's) content. The young wolverine was big enough to scare off anybeast that dared approach _his_ muffin basket. Captain Ripple Sharkbreath had stomped over as soon as he'd recovered from the first smack, only to be sent away with another. Being a ridiculously strong, if overweight, princeling sure was fun! Nothing could ruin his mood, not even the thought of his father's disapproval.

"The son of a King." Longclaw would narrate. "The son of an _Emperor_!" He would add. "Must be strong, and fit and obedient. He must rule over all the lands his father conquered for him and conquer some more. He _cannot_ spend his days eating and playing, or else he is at most a puppet ruler, and at worse, likely to be overthrown."

 _Rot in Hellgates, ye dumb old beast._ Bork thought, as his sharp teeth tore apart an innocent strawberry-laced muffin. He was not particularly fond of them but they, along with hazelnuts (another flavour Bork was not too keen on) had been a favourite of the first Whimper's. He wondered what the Castle was like now. Most of it was empty, and Whimper was more or less on his own now. He doubted his father would do anything to a son of Mad-Eye Marik... Although he _had_ made Clogg replace the littler Whimper. And killing his only friend and serving him in a pie- perhaps as a way to scare him away from pies forever- was just the sort of cruel thing his father might do.

Bork was nearly sick at the thought, but shook his head determinedly. No. Clogg would never let that happen. And if it did happen he and the rat would flay his father alive. Which meant his father wouldn't do it. Whimper would be alone and miserable, no doubt, but he'd be alive. The young wolverine selected the last remaining muffin- blueberry flavoured- when he heard a voice.

"Well, well, well. If it isn't little Stumpclaw!"

 _Oh no._ Thought Bork. _It's the Muffinbeast!_

 _Bork had first met said Muffinbeast on his fifth nameday. It had been a small celebration, which his father had of course not attended. In truth it had been an excuse to summon a few of the Lords of the Frozen North and execute them. Naturally the fact that it had been his birthday made no difference to his father, who had on that day cemented his strength in the Northlands irrevocably._

 _The Muffinbeast had been one of said Lord's guards or something- Bork had never bothered asking. The wildcat, older than him by perhaps five or so seasons, had been lucky enough to be spared from the massacre ensuing in an adjacent room, having been too preoccupied with a sumptuous feast to hear his master's pleas for help or mercy. To be fair Bork hadn't heard the lords either._

 _Between the two of them they had finished the meal of ten lesser beasts. It had even seemed like a sort of alliance! Until there was only one muffin- incidentally, blueberry flavoured- left._

 _Bork had refused to give up his claim to the muffin. "I am the Prince." He had said. "This is my feast."_

 _The wildcat had laughed. "Prince of what? Prince of Flab?"_

 _The young wolverine had growled, and unsheathed his claws. "I ain't flabby and nobeast calls me flabby!" Except his father of course- but that was different._

 _The wildcat had gone a step further however, and drawn his sword. In one swift motion the wolverine's claws were reduced to tiny little stumps. The feline howled with laughter. "Stumpy! Stumpclaw! Hahahaha! Stumpclaw the Fat!"_

 _Bork had stood up in rage, his young face red with rage and shame. Claws were the pride and joy of any sane wolverine. Much moreso a wolverine prince. Standing on his chair so that the shortness (and plumpness) of his age did not hamper him, the princeling bared his fangs. "Ye'll pay fer that ye kitten! I'll make ye-"_

 _The wildcat's curved sword next sliced through the first two chair legs of his seat. The young wolverine hit the table face-first with a might CRASH!The muffinebeast had offered him no further mercy after that, and pinning him to the table, had brought the flat of his blade sharply against his rump as if he were nothing more than a naughty dibbun._

 _The feline had stopped as soon as Longclaw entered. The King of the Lands of Ice and Snow had had claws and teeth covered in the blood of former lords. Bork had almost smiled. His father was here! Now the wildcat was in for it!_

 _To the young wolverine's horror, he had been the one dragged out the hall by the ear and locked in his room for a week. It had been the worst birthday present of his entire life._

 _The wildcat had recieved no punishment, and had in fact been given a brand new ship. "Anybeast who can humiliate my son the way you did. " Longclaw had said, within earshot of Bork. "Must look like a king."_

Bork snarled at the memory and the reappearance of his nemesis.

The Muffinbeast looked different now. He was older, obviously, as many seasons had passed. He wore a thick plate of black Southwardian Armour he had no doubt gotten off of a large otter. Though the spiked shoulderpads were most likely an addition of his own. He was tall for even a wildcat- and although Bork would no doubt outgrow him, the feline still overtopped the young prince. A thick layer of golden brown fur clung to him, blowing slightly in the breeze of the sea. His face was decorated with many a whisker and a scar that had not been there last time. A wicked slice across the feline's face, that took with it his right eye- now a marble white- leaving the other icy blue.

"Nice scar." Bork's paw held on to the muffin with an iron determination. "Couldn't duck in time could ye?"

The wildcat let out a barking laugh. "That's the best ye could come up with? Pathetic." He pointed at the eye. "A hatchet took this eye. I took the Hatchet-throwers life."

 _Pathetic, pathetic, pathetic._ The words rung inside his head like a bell. "It's better than Stumpclaw!" He pushed himself shakily to his feet, the ship did his balance no favours. "What do ye want anyways?" Bork glanced down at the muffin in his paw. "Because if it's vittles go an' get yer own!"

The wildcat regarded the wolverine critically. "Muffin. Now."

 _Revenge is sweet._ Thought the Prince, taking a deep bite out of the blueberry goodness. "Mmmmmmmm! Thish ish shooooo good! _Mmmmm!_ Pity there'sh none left." He wasn't even exaggerating. The muffin was sweet too!

The wildcat drew closer so that they were face to face. Bork stood his ground, unafraid and still determinedly chewing. "Chew on this!" The feline drew his head back and spat.

Bork was momentarily blinded by the glob of spit, growled and slashed wildly. His claws found nothing. By the time he'd wiped away the saliva, his opponent had seemingly lost interest and had his back turned.

 _I'm not five seasons old anymore, you ugly kitten. Nobeast pushes me around!_ Bork snarled and pounced with avengeance, his claws unsheathed.

* * *

Because fate loathed him and refused to ever, no matter what, throw him a bone so to speak, he found himself at the foot of an immense cliff. It was so tall that Fret was tempted to just go back and turn left- but he's already come this far and the ice here seemed to have a few good footholds.

For Butch! He thought, snatching at the first icicle. For Momchillo! He brought his other paw into the wall and clung on. For Snakeskin! He brought his right footpaw against the icy walls- his claws giving him some semblance of purchase. For my momma! His last footpaw found a foothold and he heaved himself above the ground and against the cliff.

He was already exhausted from the climbing (and he was only about a foot or so off the ground to begin with), and he couldn't even see the end of the cliff-face!

Just as he was beginning to reconsider, there came a distant _CRACK!_ and he held onto the ice with even greater vigor. Another _CRACK!_ came, this one closer, followed by a third tremendous one. The cliff-face seemed to be splitting in half.

Fret swallowed as a multitude of tiny _crack!_ s could be heard all over the frozen wall, and before he could even whimper, the whole thing burst into life. Fret screamed as water exploded from the ice around him, which was in fact, not a cliff, but a frozen waterfall!

And of course, it washed him all the way back to the frozen lake.

* * *

"Poison-blade." Clogg pointed at a rat sitting somewhat comfortably on the ropes above. "She may not look like much, but she knows more about poisons then me an' ye put together. Ye'll stay out of her way if ye know what's good for ye. She don't like crowds much so ye should be fine, but be careful. She gives ye so much as a scratch an' ye'll be in more pain then a slave in a cave."

"Obviously because I make sure my slaves are in good workin' conditions." Klis nodded, completely missing the point.

Clogg had the self-control (albeit not the desire) to stop himself from facepawing. "Jus' give her a few good yards an' ye'll be fine."

Klis nodded. "Anybeast else I should know abo-"

There came a loud splash from somewhere else on the boat, followed by a cacophony of laughter and another- almost equally loud- splash. When Clogg stomped over it became clear why. Sitting on the deck, now sporting a black eye and sniffling into his wet fur- was Bork. His rescuer, a mink called Toothclaw (named for the teeth he wore over his claws... for... reasons...) was looking slightly out of breath.

The Dreaded was laughing, as was a wildcat Klis did not recognise, and all their lackey were joining in.

"OI!" Shouted Clogg, banging his footpaw against the deck. He was smaller than most of the beasts around him, but wasn't called Captain for nothing after all. The laughing corsairs stopped. Turning to the mink (now wringing seawater out of his tail) the rat swiftly demanded an explanation.

"I'm not entirely sure what happened." Toothclaw shrugged and pointed in Bork's general direction. "He hit the water an' I pulled him out. Min' yew, I think I pulled a muscle draggin' him back on the ship."

" _I'll_ tell ye!" Said the one-eyed wildcat. "The lil' princess here decided he wanted te swim, an' I bein' a true gentlebeast, helped him te the water."

Bork snarled, but Clogg stepped firmly between them before the wolverine could hurt himself more. "Anythin' else ye wanna help the 'lil Princess' with?"

Several of the corsairs went 'ooooh' to the challenge (it wasn't worded like one of course- but that was the point), as if this was a dramatic piece of theater rather than a staredown between two grizzled and half-blind pirates.

After a few tense minutes the wildcat spat upon the ground and turned away. His supporters went with him and soon the crowd dispersed. As soon as they were out of earshot, Clogg put a paw on the wolverine's shoulder.

"Ye hurt bad?"

Bork sniffed loudly but shook his head. It was just a big bruise. That was hardly something to complain about. Once he'd scraped his knee on one of his father's stupid secret staircases, and as soon as he brought this complaint to Longclaw, the older wolverine had dismissed it as a small cut and that crying over such aches and pains did not befit the son of a King. Even if it hurts like Hellgates.

Clogg patted the wolverine's lower back. "Had enough te eat yet?"

Bork stared miserably at the table in the distance, now occupied by the wildcat and his crew.

"C'mon. Let's get back on my boat. Vittles are better there anyways." Clogg helped the wolverine up (well, he made a valiant effort to push Bork onto his feetpaws).

As they left, Klis could not help sighing in minor relief. Nobeast had any idea that he wasn't really Whimper.

* * *

Fret was now dripping wet when he turned left- because the right tunnel was definitely not taking him anywhere he wanted to go. It had taken him almost twice as long to get to the fork (because he had to wade through tunnels now) and this had not improved his mood.

And to make matters worst, he was faced with stairs- something that would have delighted him if they were small enough for him. But no, it was as if they had been built for badger feetpaw alone and he had to pull himself onto each individual step.

"I just." He growled, his claws digging into the ice he next had to climb. "Want. To. Go. Home!" That was all there was to it. Sure he'd save Butch along the way, but only to get back at the toads. "Why! Is everything I do! _Difficult!_ "

At long last he reached the top. The ferret lay flat on his back, panting from the effort of the climb. He was tired, extremely tired... Perhaps this was a safe place to rest?

Turning his head to the side Fret nearly screamed at the sight of a dozen, giant, pearly-white eggs. The ferret shot to his feetpaws, his eyes and ears darting about in panic. How typical of Martin the Warrior, to lead him right into a snake! Safe? Safe!? He could think of noplace less safe than this!

Refusing to breathe, lest it give away his location, the ferret tried his hardest to calm his beating heart. Panic was telling him to turn and run back into the tunnels below, logic told him that snakes would find him there anyways.

 _Why is it always snakes? W-why can it never be snails?_ He tip-pawed round the shiny eggs. He was sweating of course, but anybeast in his feetpaw would have been! The last thing he wanted right now was to be eaten again.

 _Find Momchillo and Snakeskin. Save Butch. Save bats. Hurt toads. Go ho-_ The minor movements of a nearby egg made his heart drop into his stomach. "Go home." He squeaked to himself, searching left and right for an exit. Anything that could take him away from the unborn predators!

To his left he spotted a narrow tunnel and he allowed himself the smallest of relieved sighs. Which quickly turned into a panicked squeak, for now _all_ the eggs seemed to be stirring, as if the creatures within had sensed the presence of frightened prey.

Fret did not waste any more time. Abandoning stealth he scrambled over to the tunnel as fast as all four of his paws could carry him. _Save the beaver._ _Go home._ And hopefully, there would be no snakes awaiting him there.

* * *

"You know I did think there was something fishy going on. Obviously, nobeast got too good a look at Whimper- Longclaw's doing I heard- but quite a few beasts have mentioned the words 'small', 'skinny' and 'runt' in connection to him. And then there's the name of course... So you can imagine my confusion when this big burly ferret comes aboard my ship. Did everybeast just lie to me? How could this be? Didn't we all have a deep bond of camaraderie and trust?"

The worst part about working for the Manywhiskers wasn't that he could kill you at a moment's notice and not care about it, that was standard amongst vermin leaders. The worst part was that he talked... a lot.

"But then it all makes sense now! Somebeast must have killed the first fake- or maybe he just went and died, runts you know? So Clogg finds a new one! _Genius!_ "

Swallowtail reminded him of her presence with a small cough. The miniature wildcat looked at her, his eyes wide with hurt.

"But I was just getting to the good bit."

"Ye've already told it te me three times!" She snapped. "I did what ye asked, I got the truth outta that idjit. Now cough up! We had a deal me an' ye!"

"I haven't forgotten." The Manywhispers said with his usual flare. Reaching under his desk he withdrew several sacks- each jingling with coinage. "Three hundred gold coins, yes?"

"I'm countin' them jus' so ye know." The female ferret said, her eyes glazed over with greed.

"Well it's yours!" He made to shove them towards her, but suddenly hesitated. "Although... I do think you owe me some gold too..."

"Fer what?"

"Well..." The wildcat frowned slightly. "I didn't tell anybeast about what you did with Termitetooth." He withdrew one of the bags completely. "Or how much he payed you for it. And then there was that business with the Dreaded. Not to mention where you stabbed poor Lack-nose. There was also the incident with the oars, and I never did get around to telling Clogg you stole one or two of his rats... or Longclaw that you stole about six... this season. And don't even get me started on that juicy rumour about you and-"

There was only one bag on the desk now. Noticing this, the Manywhiskers made a sort of 'hmmm' noise. "You do deserve some sort of reward for all that hard work... luring a total oaf into a chamber after I already separated him from his captain. And making said oaf tell you the truth. Yes... not many beasts could do that." He stroked a particularly long whisker, before nodding. "I've decided to pay you." He seized the final bag and Swallowtail reached out to receive it... only to find a single gold coin in her paws.

She turned to him, appalled, and found him waving her away with his paws.

"Hush now! No need to say 'thank ye'! And remember, any more juicy rumors come straight to me!"

* * *

The tunnel had been a tight squeeze at times, but Fret was relieved when he found himself amidst familiar caverns once more. Or at least, familiar in that they looked very much like the ones Snakeskin had taken them through. Which meant that he could be anywhere! Every tunnel in the Lands of Ice and Snow looked exactly the same! He was also physically drained, soggy-furred and freezing. Not once in his life, had any of _his_ decisions caused him this much suffering!

"I just _had_ to be the hero." He growled to himself as he lay flat on the ice. "Couldn't just wait for Clogg. Couldn't wait for Snakeskin and Momchillo. No! I had to do it _myself!"_

The ferret froze when he heard a voice. Ironically, it was one that said 'I think I heard a voice Chief.' Unfortunately it was Longtongue's, a scheming high-pitched ribbit that sent shivers down Fret's spine.

Scrambling to his feetpaws, his heart missed another beat when Slimegut's deeper croak- albeit laced with rage rather than smugness now- met his ears. "Then go find out what it is! And if it's that sneaking warlord brat I'll- I'll-" He growled, and Fret assumed he was hopping up and down in rage. "Longtongue! Wormbreath! Swamphide! Follow that noise!"

Panic of course, was the first thing that set in. No no no no no! This couldn't be happening! He had just escaped the toads! H-he couldn't just- It wasn't _fair!_ He could hear their approaching footsteps, and could see their shadows growing taller as they approached. He needed a deep breath, but that would give him away. He wanted to run-, but that too would give him away. Fret shook his head and forced himself to think as he bit back on a whimper.

They were coming from one tunnel, and there was another that lay opposite it. Next to this tunnel there was a third, but he couldn't get to either of them without the toads noticing him- and in his present condition he doubted he'd do much outrunning...

"Do you smeel dat?" Came the voice of a toad he hadn't heard before.

"Aye. The little stinkball's here somewhere!" Longtongue growled. "We're gonna get him now, the ugly sneak."

Fret had to force himself to think of escaping, rather than irony of being called ugly by a toad. He couldn't escape without either going back to the snake-nest (not an option) or somehow making all three of them walk right past him! But how was he supposed to do that?

The ferret stiffled a whimper and his eyes began to water. This was not fair! Not fair! Not fair! He had been good! An-and he'd tried to help the others and... He was doomed. The toads would turn the corner any minute now, and then any hopes of seeing Redwall and Constance again would be squashed like a bug. His paw squeezed tightly around his yoyo, the strange metal bob that had followed him for so long and through so much. It was then that inspiration struck.

Swiftly, he unwound it from his neck. The amphibian fools were dumber than Grollo... there was a chance it could work...

He hesitated. His Nuncle had given him the toy... a lifetime ago. Of course he'd dismissed it- Connington's gifts had never appealed to him much. But this one... The yoyo was Constance and Connington and Redwall. It was the happy days where his only worries had been dish duty and getting a scolding. And despite the fact that he'd called it a stupid toy half-a-hundred times over, his paw refused to relinquish it. Even if it was his only chance at escape.

"Do you think Chief'll kill him?" He heard the third toad snicker.

"If he doesn't." Said Longtongue. "I will."

Stiffling a whimper, Fret raised his paw and hurled the yoyo into the furthest tunnel. He had no choice... there was nothing else at paw to throw. It clattered and bounced along the walls- not particularly loud, but a cacophony in the tense silence of the moment.

"I definitely heard him!" The same third toad cried.

"Aye! He's down that tunnel!"

"Quick! Afore he gets away or the chief will have our hides!"

If the trick hadn't cost him his most precious possession, Fret would have laughed. He went unnoticed as all three of them raced past and into the tunnel. Oblivious to his quivering form and it's shadow.

The ferret wasted no time and scampered away as soon as their sprinting receded, down the tunnel they hadn't taken (though one they might have under different circumstances). The strength of his beating heart and the close call he'd just had gave his paws the strength they needed to carry him away. But as soon as the panic subsided, Fret slowed his pace.

"Find Snakeskin and Momchillo." He whimpered to himself, so quietly the words didn't even echo. "Save Butch. Get my yoyo back." He blinked and wiped at the coming tears. "Go home."

* * *

As soon as the ferret slammed the door shut, the Manywhiskers gave a giggle. "So Cloggo is playing puppetmaster now? Hehehehe, well. Klis sounds like an interesting fellow." He rubbed his paws in glee. Things were going to be very fun now. "Brownfeather!" He called, tapping at the floorboards beneath him.

A moment later a small, muddy-brown crow slunk into the room and gave a sweeping bow. "Your bidding, master."

"Yes, yes. My bidding." He giggled again. "Send word to my informant's informant's informants! I want to know as much as possible about a ferret named _Klis_! One copper coin for a rumour, one silver coin for a fact, one gold coin for a fact they can _prove!_ " He clapped his paws impatiently, the bird bowed and made his exit and the little cat sat in his chair and gave a contended sigh. "Ahhhhh _Whimper_... It really will be a pleasure getting to know you."

* * *

Momchillo's hopes of finding Fret dwindled with every footstep. Any and every tunnel they passed though had no trace of his fur, or pawprints, or even his scent. The ferret was nowhere to be found.

"We'll find 'im." Snakeskin continued to reassure him every time they turned into a new cavern, but that comforting was as stale as his bread, and even the stoat sounded glum after repeating it fifty times. Saying the words seemed to be a monumental effort now. It sapped away at his inner resolve and outer strength. The two had started off at a brisk pace, but had since devolved into dragging themselves across the ice.

"I think 'e's dead." Said Snakeskin, as they came upon another empty cavern. His voice was empty and broken, and even his hypnotized eye seemed to be mourning.

Momchillo felt the harsh sting of tears against his eyes. No. No that was not possible. "H-he can't be!" The mouse insisted, almost fanatically. "M-Martin the Warrior would protect him. O-or his mother would. Somebeast had to save him! H-he can't be d-d-d-" He couldn't say it. The thought was too frightening. "I-I wo-"

"Shhhh." The stoat had an arm round his shoulder as quick as a flash. "Everythin'll be alrigh'. Ye just got te-"

"This is all my fault!" The mouse's voice, hysteric to begin with, echoed around the cavern as if a demented bat were speaking. "H-he told me not to drag him through the tunnels but I didn't listen! A-and then a snake nearly g-got him. And n-now he's missing. And if I hadn't b-b-been- if I hadn't..." He pulled free of Snakeskin's arm. He did not deserve comfort. "I called him vermin! I made him miserable! I-I-I was a bully!"

"It's ok-"

"None of it is okay! Fret is g-gone because of me! He left Redwall b-b-because of me! B-because I thought it was funny t-to hang him off the walls o-or b-because I couldn't, I couldn't..." He trailed off and stomped over to the wall of ice. Snakeskin winced as the mouse brought his own face into it without mercy. "I'm stupid! Stupid! _Stupid!_ " The mouse slammed his head into the wall with each 'stupid', but Snakeskin did not let him finish a fourth one.

"Ye ain' stewpid." The stoat said, grabbing him under the armpits and pulling him away from the wall entirely. In his paws the mouse was as droopy as a wet towel. Gone were the protests of being cradled, the attempts to pull free from his unwanted grip. All there was, was a shudder and a hollow response.

"Yes I am."

"Yer not. An' trus' me, beatin' yerself over thin's ye did ain' helpin' anybeas'."

"It makes me feel better." Momchillo mumbled, wiping at his eyes. "I deserve worse."

The white stoat placed him gently on the ice, before sitting down opposite him. "Ye don'. I know it can feel that way, but it's not righ' te blame yerself."

"Even if it's your fault?"

Snakeskin sighed and dragged his paws over his face. "We shouldn' 'ave gone to visit the bats. That was my faul'. No' yers."

"But I-"

"I used me own sons as bait." Snakeskin interrupted. "Nothin' ye ever did te Fret comes close te that." The stoat sighed once more, his ears drooping. "I'm an 'orrible father."

"I don't think you're horrible." Momchillo mumbled quietly, but did not know what else to say. There was silence now between them. No noise penetrated the air, until Snakeskin sniffed. The young mouse watched as the stoat stood up, marched determinedly over to where he had been hitting himself, and brought his head into the ice.

"An' if _I_ 'adn' been so stewpid they'd still be 'ere! Slimeball! Flicker! _Fret_!"

It was comparatively harder for Momchillo to pull the stronger beast away from the wall, but the mouse managed after Snakeskin hit himself no less than thirteen times. With a shudder the stoat went limp, and slid to the ground with a whimper.

There was a very awkward silence, wherein they both attempted to breathe as quietly as possible lest it set off anything.

"We'll rest up a bit, maybe eat somethin' if we're 'ungry." Although it went unspoken, both knew neither would be able to eat anything. "Then we can try lookin' someplace else maybe. Maybe ask Snap fur some 'elp findin' 'im. An'... if we don'..." The older beast trailed off.

Momchillo felt the tears return and his stomach twist. He could not bear to imagine what it would be like to arrive at Redwall and be the beast that had to tell them all about Fret's demise. He would never be able to look Constance, or Abbot Martin, or any of his peers in the face again.

Snakeskin sighed, stood up, and stretched his paw out towards the mouse. "C'mon. We can skip the meal an' 'ead straight te the bats. The more eyes an' ears we 'ave the easier it'll be te fin' the lil' stinkball."

Momchillo took the paw in his own shaking one, and the white-furred stoat easily pulled him to his feetpaws.

"We'll find 'im." The stoat said, with renewed confidence- one that Momchillo knew was put-on but was grateful for anyways. "I can already smell 'im!"

Momchillo sniffed at the air, and sure enough there it was. A singularly unpleasant smell. Yet one that brought life back to the mouse's face. "I-I can too."

They shared a look of surprise, turned back the way they came and to their surprise and delight, there he was. Dripping in half-dried fur, with a singularly filthy chest and a head that looked like it had been dumped in slobber, the ferret was only a short distance away. His head was bowed. He had noticed neither of them, and from the way he was walking, looked exhausted.

"Find Momchillo. Find Snakeskin." Momchillo could hear him repeating in desperation, as the mouse ran closer. "Save Butch. Hurt the frogs."

"FREEEEEEEET!" The ferret was startled, and looked up just in time to see Momchillo jumping at him.

For one horrible second the mouse thought he'd just dive right through him, the way he'd flown right through Martin the Warrior in his dream. But the next thing he knew, he'd brought the ferret to the ground.

"Momchillo?" The ferret asked, his head spinning as four, five, _six_ mice swam before his eyes.

"You're alive!" The rodent cried, his paws glued to the ferret's chest. It was impossible to put into words the relief that flooded through him. "We were so worried!"

"Maybe no' worried." Snakeskin gave a casual shrug as he drew closer. "But we did wonder where in 'ellgates ye've bin all this time."

"I..." Began Fret as Momchillo got off him and helped him sit up. "I don't even know." There was a strange, haunted look in his eyes, as if he'd seen a ghost.

"Ye alrigh'?"

"I- no." The ferret shook his head weakly. "I-I-" He was hungry and cold and tired and wet and dirty and his feetpaw were sore, and his eyelids were droopy and his arms ached from climbing, and he wanted his yoyo back and he needed to rescue Butch and the other bats, but maybe not Bartok and Momchillo was staring into his face, the mouse's eyes full of worry.

The ferret was taken aback when he noticed they were sore and red- had he been crying? It was most unlike Momchillo to cry. "Are you- are those _tears?_ "

"I told you I was worried." Momchillo could not help looking sheepish as once more he rubbed at his eyes.

Fret did not know what to say, but felt some sort of warmth stir within him. He quickly squashed it aside however. Now was no time for warmth!

"So. Did ye really jus' wonder off an' ge' los'?" Snakeskin wore a smirk on his muzzle as he posed the question, but it vanished instantly when the ferret began explaining.

"No. I was sleeping- I don't know where you two were." For a moment he glared at them both- where _had_ they been? He'd _needed_ them! "But then this big ugly bat dropped me into a waterfall!"

He did not notice the look of shock and horror that passed between Momchillo and Snakeskin.

"Said some bear needed to eat! The grey flapping fiend! I'll- I'll-" He wasn't sure when he had started pacing, but it was what he did now. "I'd have clawed him to pieces but then the other bats pulled me off him! And Butch! And then he sat on me! Well not really, but it felt like it!"

"Butch?" Momchillo asked.

"Some beaver." Fret waved the question away. Then he growled. "You know there isn't even a bear! It's just a bunch of toads dressed as one. One tried to eat me!"

Both mouse and stoat winced.

"B-but then I said I was a warlord's son and he said he was gonna ransom me." Fret kicked at the ice. "Then I escaped! But do things go well for me? Of course not! I land in some frozen lake fifty- I don't even know how much more underground than this! And I can't see anything! It's cold and scary an-and- Grrr! When I get out I have to walk and walk and walk, and then what happens? I have to climb a cliff that turns into a waterfull and drags me all the way back to the beginning! _Then_ I find a snake-nest! Hundreds of eggs! But no snakes." He shivered in relief. "Hurrah!" He said sarcastically. "And then I have to climb a tunnel and _that_ leads me right past the frogs and then I have to throw away my yoyo-" His voice broke here and Momchillo felt his heart well up with sympathy. "And then I got lost and after I don't even know _how_ long, you come along!" He spun round to face them, his voice accusatory and heartbroken. "So where were _you?_ "

"We er-" Momchillo glanced up at Snakeskin. "We..."

"We wen' te see the bats." Came the stoat's voice, filled to the brim with the awkwardness of this subject.

Fret's arms fell limp at his side, his shock replacing the fury. "You... what?"

Standing up the white-furred snake hunter gave a nervous chuckle. "I- er 'e'e'e'e, ye see. Their chief is an ol' frien' of mine."

Fret blinked, then felt rage swell up within his chest. "So while I nearly died _six_ times." He growled through gritted teeth. "You were visiting an _'old friend_ '?"

"We were looking for you too." Momchillo stared miserably at his feetpaws. "We were-"

" _Worried_ , I know." Fret said coldly. He wanted to hit Momchillo for being an idiot. He wanted to hit Snakeskin for laughing. He wanted to hit the Chief for being involved. Most of all he wanted to hit the bog-dweller of a bat that had thrown him off a waterfall!

"Well sorry Fret. Bu' we 'ad no idea any of this would 'appe-"

"We were _very_ worried!"

"An' when we couldn' fin' ye anywhere-"

"I'm sorry I-"

"Anyhow we don't have time for this!" Fret snapped, silencing their apologies and excuses. "When the toads realize I'm missing they-they'll..." He was not sure what exactly they would do, but it was no doubt something horrible, and they still had the frightened Butch.. "We have to get the others out too." The ferret said with a conviction Momchillo had never before heard from him. "W-we could-" Here the ferret trailed off. He had been so intent upon saving himself that he had not thought of any plan of rescue. His ears drooped and his muzzle twisted into an expression as miserable as Momchillo's. "We..."

Snakeskin, however, was suddenly grinning. "So these 'ere toadies dress up as a bear, eh?" The white-furred stoat cackled and rubbed at his paws. "I think it's time we- 'ow do woodlanders pu' it again?- 'oist 'em by their tails!"

"What do you mean?" Momchillo asked after a moment's pause.

The stoat however had not heard him, too intent upon his diabolical laughter. "A'a'a'a'a'a'aA'A''A'A'A'A'A'A'A'A'A'A'A!"

* * *

 _Footnote: Stay tuned to find out what Snakeskin is laughing about- feel free to join in the diabolical laughter everyone!_

 _Sooo, Poisonblade became a rat, fairly standard vermin species, helps that her (you didn't mention... but I assumed...) shtick is looking unimpressive but being deadly._

 _And Toothclaw became a mink-because I wanted a mink. I'm not sure if there are any in Redwall buuut there is a species of European mink so I didn't think too much about adding one. I already have beavers sooo... Plus it helps that minks are semi-aquatic, I wasn't sure how else to save Bork from his impromptu swim. These characters are named by (and er-I assume property of) Abrahem._

 _You know an interesting idea I got (but which er-wasn't mine) was to have Fret turn up -sans all the adventures- and just have him rant about all the horrible things that happened to him... but I figured it was better to show bits of it-especially since that yoyo hasn't had much screentime in a while. The game of hot-potatoe must continue! XD  
_

 _Also, in case not obvious. One-Eye, the Wildcat belongs toooo... One-Eye the Wildcat! Hehehe, he's gonna be fun (although please don't expect much screentime for him- he's kind of just a semi-background character)_


	62. How To Terrify A Toadie

**A/N: I have returned! And we're still on this arc... hehehe...**

 **AlexFalTalon: Aaaaand Toothclaw has a themesong now XD For some reason I like it (and can imagine the Manywhiskers singing it...)**

 **To be fair, Snakeskin was probably used as bait by his parents. Not an excuse of course, but he's certainly not the _worst_ father in-story.**

 **Keldor: Or they would be poisonous snails and Fret would have to jump from shell to shell XD**

 **Abrahem: Co-creators sounds very good! Blendfur works as a spy, but we shall see how to incorporate him... hmmm...**

 **The rumours we shall incorporate the next time we visit the pirates. I really want to get Fret and Momchillo's adventure with the toads done already- buuut, these things take time. As fun as it would be to just have the bats swoop in and save the day... actually that doesn't sound very fun XD Still at most this arc should take up another four chapters. At *most*. Then we should head back to Longclaw's castle and the pirates where we can learn more about this... badger-slayer... And Toothclaw has to kill a shark XD**

 **Okay... less obvious than I thought apparently... Swallowtail isn't Thornflame. They are separate characters. Also news. Thornflame will be in... Book III!**

 **Yeah, haha, it's kinda why I reacted so quickly to the 'interest' line. That scene was all about the Manywhispers getting the info. And Klis being an idiot of course, but the Manywhiskers is more important there plot-wise.**

 **I really like Klis and Bork. Gonna have to work on them more... And flesh out Marik's history more via Clogg (and Snakeskin eventually).**

 **Keyla: Hmmm, I do have a few ideas- but he shouldn't pop in tooo soon. We will get a look into another canon character soon. Hehehehe. Although... soon for me can be anything from the next chapter to the next... year.**

 **Thank you all for the lovely reviews. Four hundred is just... I don't know how to describe it XD Phenomenal? Terrific? Tremendous? Thank you everybody!**

 **Final note is a shout-out to Jack the Quick- er- I mean Socca Kingkiller. Who is writing... *Drumroll* A sequel to this! A far off sequel mind, set two generations after this one. And there might be some deviations here and there because he doesn't know all the details (not even I do sooo) but that's part of the fun I suppose. The fic is called Kingkiller if yall are interested.**

 **For the record... I am also planning a sequel (yes, I am crazy) although less ahead in the future... ten or so seasons after BaW concludes... But I make no promises regarding dates and stuff. It'll probably take me another year just to finish this XD**

 **Enough rambling! Enjoy the chapter!**

"I'm only going to ask this once." Sneered Chief Slimegut of the Yellowbellies, his face bubbling with rage (or perhaps it was just his numerous warts that gave that impression.) "Where. Is. The. Princeling?"

The bats before him were all stony-faced and silent. Serious, cold, calculating. One even looked smug! It was this grey bat that Slimegut stomped over to. Siezing Bartok by the throat, the toad glared down at him. "How did he escape? Where did he go?"

"I-I-I-" The bat's stuttering grew intolerable, and Slimegut punched him. Turning away from the groaning mammal, the amphibian hopped up and down in rage. "Swampbreath, you idiot! I told you to guard the door!"

"I-I did Chief- l-like you told me t-"

"SHUT UP! ALL OF YOU SHUT UP!" If he had fur, Slimegut would have been tearing it off his head. "I was gonna be rich! You have any idea what warlords do for their heirs? Well? Do you? I'd have been bathing in worms if it weren't for you stinking, useless- SHUT UP!" This last shout was addressed to Butch, who had been inconsolable since dropping 'Fretch' down the tunnel.

The bats had tried to comfort him of course, the smallest had even tried to squeeze down the tunnel himself, but to no avail (although he had claimed- outside of Butch's earshot- to have heard screaming). The Yellowbellies, on the other paw, had not offered any sort of comfort beyond a kick or two meant to silence him.

"Why're you even crying you big, stupid water-rat? Not like you lost anything! Me? I lost a lifetime's supply of vittles!"

At the sound of approaching footsteps, Slimegut turned. A flicker of hope came and went as Longtongue, Wormbreath and Swamphide returned. Without the stinking furbody. Once more rage came boiling to the surface.

Before his tirade could continue (it had already gone on for quite some time...), Longtongue tossed over something small and shiny. Instinctively the Chief's tongue shot out and snatched it from the air.

"What's this?" Slimegut croaked, his voice dangerously low.

"The warlord's necklace or something." Longtongue said with a shrug. "We couldn't find the ferret."

Slimegut turned away from him and marched determinedly towards a nearby table (their camp was rather disorganized). "Must have found a different tunnel. Or maybe a snake got hi-"

The tall toad narrowly dodged a viciously-thrown goblet.

"IF A SNAKE GOT HIM THEN I CAN'T VERY WELL USE HIM FOR RANSOM NOW CAN I!?" He was once more hopping up and down in rage. "Did you think about that? Eh? You're so smart Longtongue! You're so clever! WARTHOG ALREADY LEFT! And he's got the fur! And now that we don't have the little runt, what's stopping Mad-Eye Marik from killing all of us!?"

A deathly silence filled the swamp-like cavern, punctuated by an especially loud sob from Butch.

Slimegut rounded on him. "I've had it with you!" He stomped towards the unprotected beaver and lashed out with unparalleled fury. "You and your whining! And your crying! You wanna go back to mama? Eh? DO YOU?" The toad punched and kicked without mercy, and Butch sobbed all the louder. Yet again he struck.

One of the bats, a particularly old and shrivelled-up beast, pushed himself to his talons. "Stop! You're hurting the poor-"

Slimegut was not the only toad who hit him.

"And who asked for your opinion?"

"Quiet bat! The Chief's teaching the brat a lesson!"

"I DON'T NEED YOUR HELP!" Slimegut screeched, shoving them all aside. "You're all useless! _Useless!_ You let the ferret escape! One, tiny, wimpy little runt and you couldn't catch him! You- you- yo-" The toad screamed- not any word or anything, he just screamed.

* * *

"This right 'ere boys," Snakeskin waved a small waterjug, the contents within sloshing, "is venom. No' a lo' of snakes 'ave 'em in this par' of the worl'- but I killed one or two that did. An' I've seen wha' this can do te a creature. Nas'y stuff, bu' I say the toads deserve worse! Nobeas' harms me an' my own." He thumped his chest proudly, before gingerly pouring some of the venom onto a piece of snake-flesh. "One bi'e of this an' they won' be botherin' anybeas' no more."

Momchillo and Fret were staring at the jug- and by extension him- with nothing short of horror and revulsion. "What? Issa quick death! Better than wha' they'd do te ye."

Fret shook his head. "We're not doing that. I-i- j-just no. What if they feed it to the bats? O-or Butch?" The beaver babe had nearly eaten _him_ the first time they'd met, Fret liked to think a snake was more appealing.

"Well do ye 'ave a better idea?"

"We could scare them off." Momchillo suggested. "Maybe if we made our shadows all big and scary…" The mouse trailed off.

"May'aps we should tell Snap. I know what the bats did te ye was wrong Fret but I've known 'im fer a while. 'E ain' a bad fellow-"

Fret hurriedly pointed a claw at Momchillo. "Y-your idea could work." Well it wouldn't, but it was better than Snakeskin's...

The mouse shook his head ruefully. "But if they realize the shadow isn't-"

"We'll scare them off." The ferret decided. Suddenly, his claws were out and sketching upon the ice. "And I think I have an idea…"

* * *

"How did he even escape?" Asked the Chief toad, his voice hoarse and hollow. The bats and the toads shared nervous glances. The last thing anybeast wanted was to set off another explosion, many still wore bruises from the last slapping spree. Suddenly he snarled, sounding nothing at all like a toad, but very much like a bear. "He must have walked right past you Swampbreath! Lazing on the job, were you?"

"N-n-"

Slimegut seemed determined to hit as many of the creatures present as possible. "You know some beasts kill their dozing watchbeasts! Some flay them alive! You had one job you filthy son of a-"

"He couldn't have gone past Swampbreath." Longtongue butted in. "The room was sealed, he could not have moved the boulder by himself."

"Then how do you explain his- why isn't he here?"

The tall toad put a webbed hand to his chin and pondered the question before him.

Slimegut's eyes drifted to Butch (who had been unable to contain a sniff) and a firefly set off within his mind. It then became a raging fire because he was quite convinced his new theory was correct.

"You… ate him…"

Every bat gave their most deadpanned stare, but Slimegut was oblivious to it.

"You big, stupid, crybaby! You ate my warlord!"

"W-whatch?"

Slimegut hopped up and smacked him hard across the face. The stinging blow filled Butch's eyes with tears, but the beaver did his best to hold them in. "Thought he was your dinner, eh? Thought you could get away with it, did you?" The detestable toad punched him in the stomach. "You've already digested him you little monster! I'll kill you for that! He was _my_ worm-bait! _My_ hostage! _My_ lunch! My-"

"Er Chief! I think I know how he escaped!"

"I've already figured it out Swamphide you idiot! The beaver ate him!"

"Er- right. So there was a hole here before, right?"

"What hole? There was never any hole! Are you-" Slimegut, and most of the other toads, turned to find Swamphide buried up till his neck in a new tunnel.

"I've got it!" Cried Slimegut, racing towards the toad. "The little sneak dug an escape tunnel! Quick Swamphide! Before he gets too far!"

Swamphide, who had been expecting some help being pulled out, was disappointed to find the fat toad hopping on his head in an attempt to push him down the tunnel. "Ow! Chief that hurts! Chief! Chief!"

"Grrrrr! Shuddup, why don't you? Go get the ferret!"

"I won't fit! Send someone smaller! Longtongue's thin enough!"

Slimegut growled and kicked Swamphide's unprotected face. "Fine! You lot, pull him out! Longtongue, get ready to drag that slinky stinkball here!"

After much trial and effort, Swamphide came free of the tunnel with a small pop. But the tall toad had no desire whatsoever to jump into the darkness.

"It is dark! And it is cold! And we don't even know if the ferret's down there! You just said the beaver at-"

Slimegut pointed a webbed finger at Butch. "Would you rather crawl down his throat?"

"Why do I have to crawl through anything?"

Slimegut went crimson with rage. "Because _I_ am the _Chief_ and _I_ told you t-"

A distant echo, almost like hissing, silenced him.

"Did you hear that?" One toad asked another.

"Shhh!" Insisted Longtongue, before anybeast could reply. "Quiet if you want to live."

Yet the hissing grew louder, and drew closer- until a name as cold and as venomous as a serpent was heard.

 _"Asssssmodeusssssssssssssss!"_

In the silence of the caverns, the voice was like a thunderclap.

"If we stay quiet." Slimegut insisted in a harsh whisper, as he stepped away from the equally-frightened (but chained) captives. "Maybe it won't find us."

Yet the voice drew closer- and was soon joined by a second one- equally as frightening if not moreso.

 _"Asssssssssmodeusssssssssssss!"_

 _"Mister Deassssssssssssssssth!"_

The amphibians, suddenly terrified, huddled closer.

Then three voices, all at once, yet all different, made their blood run cold.

 _"Balisssssssssssss!"_

 _"Asssssssmodeusssssssssss!"_

 _"Mister DEATHSSSSSSSSSSSSSSS!"_

A shadow, cruel, dark and curling- like something from deep within the pits of Hellgates, reared up from a tunnel. Three heads, a wall of scales, all teeth and claws and shimmering poison. A monster. An abomination. A nightmare come to life.

"Aaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaah!"

"It's a gruffalo!"

"AAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAH!"

"RUUUUUN!"

The toads turned to flee. Yet from another tunnel, an equally frightening terror appeared. A snake! Large and scaled in black and white and yellow and brown, with fangs dripping in blood and venom. When it hissed, it hissed death.

"RUN!" Shouted Slimegut, who was pulling the rear. The Yellowbellies fled, like dibbuns from bedtime. Running, however, was not the best way to put their escape into motion. Or into words. What the less-frightened (but still terrified) toads did was more akin to ceaseless hopping, those with less bravery (this included the Chief) scrambled along the ice, sometimes slipping, sometimes sliding, sometimes hopping.

"It's getting closer!"

"Move faster!"

"Come on Wormbreath! Hurry up!"

The captives huddled closer to one another, and Butch swallowed audibly. Yet none of the monsters moved for what seemed like an eternity.

"D-did it just work?" Said a voice, from somewhere within the serpent, that was vaguely familiar.

* * *

A moment later, the cavern rung with laughter. Momchillo, who had been standing on top of Fret, toppled over and brought the ferret and 'snake' down with him. A large skull slid across ice from them, and found itself at Butch's feetpaw. The three headed monster became a tangle of stoat and scales as Snakeskin's white-furred head came free of the disguise.

"' _A'A'A'A'A'A'A'A'A'A'A'A!_ D-did ye see the-the-'a'a'a'a'a'a- look on 'is face?"

Fret, dazed from both the success of his plan, and the fall, had to be dragged out of costume by Momchillo. "That was absolutely brilliant, Fret! Genius! Wait till everybeast at Redwall-"

"Fretch?" Interrupted Butch. The ferret raised a tired paw and tried to smile, but alas his eyelids were too heavy for such a motion.

"FREEEEETCH!" He, and Momchillo by extension, were instantly wrapped in a hug. "You came back! Y-you came!"

"Well." Wheezed Fret, uncomfortably familiar with the beaver's bone-crushing hugs. "I wasn't going to leave you behind."

"You must be Butch." Momchillo added, his face turning a light shade of red.

"Dat's me!" The beaver replied, hugging them all the tighter- oblivious to their lack of air and comfort. "Pleased to meetcha!"

"Awww, isn't that swee'? Lurvely te make yer acquain'ance Butcher." Snakeskin waved up at the beaver. He leaned in conspiratorially and hid his muzzle behind the back of his paw. "Ye migh' wanna go easy on the 'ugs, though. Jus' a lil'."

Butch looked down, and noticed to his surprise, that neither of his rescuers were breathing. He placed them gently upon the ice and picked awkwardly at his buckteeth. "Sawwy about dat.."

"No problem." Momchillo gasped, taking in as much air as his lungs could hold.

"W-wait!" Said Bartok. "You three were the snake?"

"All Fret's plan." Snakeskin said with a wide grin. Casually, the stoat turned away from the captives and fished for his spear within the folds of his costume. He pulled free a spear. The shaft was gnarled and yellow, and the head, a deadly-looking fang, carved into a blade. Snakeskin smiled dangerously. "Now before I untie the lo' of ye, which one of ye was i' tha' dropped 'im off a waterfall?"

"Um." The grey bat tugged awkwardly at his neck-fur. "I-In m-my defense-"

The butt of the spear spun round and caught the bat hard on the muzzle. Stars flashed painfully around his head. But Snakeskin was far from finished. Tossing aside said spear, he raised a paw, curled it into a fist and kissed it.

Before delivering the beatdown of the century.

"So ye think it's jus' fine an' dandy te walk into my cave of all places, steal a kit, nevermind 'oo 'e migh' be, an' feed 'im te a bear?"

"I-I n-n-never said that!" Bartok whimpered.

Snakeskin kicked him once more for good measure, before dusting off his paws. "Now that that's sor'ed, 'oo wants te be free?"

* * *

The toads only came to a halt as soon as they were sure the snakes were far behind them. The majority collapsed upon the ice, huffing and puffing and panting- for none of them had run as fast and as much in a long time.

And as soon as they had recovered from the sudden bout of exercise, Slimegut began to rant.

"Why didn't you try and kill it?" He demanded of Wormbreath. "You could have strangled it or something! Now we've lost all of our captives! Snakefood!" He kicked a wall of ice with extreme prejudice (which was not a good idea, he learned). "We should've turned them to grub-fodder while we had the chance." Rubbing his webbed toes, Slimegut continued to lament. "We were going to be set for life..."

"We still can be Chief." Longtongue decided. The tall toad smirked. "Even a snake will fear a bear."

* * *

It hadn't really been Fret's plan, the ferret thought after the eighteenth congratulation. Momchillo had suggested scaring the toads away, all Fret had done was suggest they pretend to be snakes. Then Snakeskin had the brilliant idea of having him carry Momchillo around to look taller (he could still smell the mouse's feetpaws…) If the toads could play dress-up like a bunch of dibbuns, well so could… actual dibbuns!

Not that he was a dibbun of course, that was silly. He was a kit.

But it was nice to be congratulated for a change. Fret could not remember the last time he had been praised for anything. Clogg had only known him as Whimper. Abbot Martin had only started doing it after the disastrous otter trip, and then only in private. Constance… had done it a lot. There was no denying that.

But now, to be hoisted upon Butch's shoulders and treated as the hero of the hour… it was a euphoria he'd always dreamed of but could never imagine. A part of him wanted to laugh and cheer with the others. But he also was in desperate need of a blanket. Ever since his sudden bath earlier that morning, he'd been in various stages of exhaustion and slowly, it was beginning to catch up to him.

He barely registered the twenty-fifth "You were such a brave kit, kit, kit." The ferret was too busy yawning.

* * *

"There isn't a snake!" Slimegut snarled, as his toads poked apart an empty snakeskin. "No monster either! Fools! You let the prisoners escape! Scared of shadows now, are you?" He unwisely chose to kick an empty skull. The bone crashed against a wall of ice, but his webbed toes were in greater pain. "There wasn't a snake! There wasn't a monster!" He roared, hopping up and down on his uninjured foot. "Monsters and snakes aren't _real_ you imbeciles! You ran away for no reason!"

None of his cronies bothered to mention that he himself had given the order to run... or that he himself had been terrified out of his wits.

Longtongue (who wasn't listening), drew a single strand of black fur from the ground. "Chief... I think I found the ferret."

"Well what good is he? The bats are free! The beaver's free! Soon every bat and beaver is gonna come after us, and we can't live off of one scrawny ferret forever!"

"Chief..." Longtongue spoke with the burning desire to be smug and proud, but with the caution and restraint to barely conceal it. "The scrawny ferret _is_ the snake."

* * *

Momchillo could not remember the last time he'd seen Fret so happy. It had certainly not been after leaving Redwall, but he could not remember the exact time. Perhaps when he'd been told he could visit the otters with them? Or that time he'd been so excited about his nameday he'd cartwheeled into the pond? _Definitely not that one_...

"Hey Fret!" The mouse beckoned him down from Butch's shoulders, and grudgingly the ferret allowed himself to be lowered.

"What is it?" He asked, sounding not at all interested.

"Just thought I'd let you know that when we get back to Redwall I'm going to bully Recorder Montague into writing all this down." Momchillo punched him lightly on the shoulder. "And I'm going to bully Hawthorn into making a tapestry of you." The young mouse spread his arms wide. "Just picture it- you, leaning on a snake skull, looking all grumpy and stuff, surrounded by fleeing toads!"

Fret frowned. "You're making fun of me."

"No I'm not!" He protested. "I'm serious! I- I'm proud of you."

The ferret scoffed skeptically. "Sure you are."

Momchillo began to scowl. "I'm going to hit you, you know that? You're unbearable sometimes! I was just trying to be nice-"

"I know." Fret snickered, and he was hard-pressed to remember the last time Fret had laughed, genuinely laughed. "I'm just pulling your tail." A smile so shy, and so afraid of it's own existence, Momchillo had never known.

The mouse's's muzzle split into a smirk. "Oh, are you now? Well you had best be careful, I might pull yours."

"I find that unlikely." And grinning? Since when did _Fret_ grin?

"Doubt not Frogsbane!" Momchillo cried, pouncing upon the ferret with an over-exaggerated war cry.

Snakeskin watched the two tumble on the ice with a sigh, shaking his head at the nicknames they gave one another (as if he were above giving somebeast a title like 'Fret of the Foul Air'). In so many ways they reminded him of his own precious kits. The squabbling was there, albeit of a more serious nature, the aversion to his cooking was there, although he had yet to meet a beast that wasn't fearful of 'Ellgates stew', and one had even been inside a snake!

It was mostly the age, the stoat decided. Two little boys, constantly at each other's throats, it was bound to remind him of his own little fuzzbutts. Watching the two roll around on the ice both filled his chest with warmth, and weighed down his heart. If he had been a better father...

But that didn't change anything. It was Marick that stole his kits... And here he was, with Marik's son. The resemblance was scant, but Snakeskin was convinced this was one of them. The ferret had had quite a few children, it did not surprise him that Fret was one of many. _Even if, thank Vulpuz, 'e's nothin' like 'is dad._

"Fret the Snake-snack!" Momchillo giggled, as he put the ferret in a (very weak because he wasn't actually fighting) headlock.

"M-momchillo the- N-no, Butch _don't_!"

The beaver, eager to join in the fun, had thrown himself into the fray- or rather directly on top of the two. Snakeskin laughed at what was undoubtedly Fret's muffled shouting, and moved over to help with the extrication process. "Ye go a'ead." He said, waving off the bats. "Tell Snap te prepare a feas'! Somethin' these three will eat as well- so no' jus' bugs."

"Thank you again, again, again." The bats chorused. Save for Bartok, who was still dazed from his earlier beating and had to be carried away in the talons of his fellow clansbeasts.

Butch was standing now, both sheepish and giggling, while Fret picked beaver fur out of his head and Momchillo tugged at his muzzle for fear it had been flattened on impact. It hadn't, of course, but Snakeskin was nothing if not a tease.

"Momchillo the pancake." He snickered, ruffling the fur between their ears. "All's well wha' en's well, eh? 'Ey, Fret! Tha' remin's me." From out of his cloak the stoat extracted a familiar looking tome. "This's yers."

Fret's eyes, suddenly fearful, darted towards Momchillo. Yet the mouse, smiling rather awkwardly, waved away his worries. "I'm sorry I beat you up over it. I-I'm sure you have your reasons. And I- I never should have- I'm sorry."

Fret blinked. "S-so you d-don't care?"

"Well... I am curious." The mouse admitted, scratching the back of his neck.

"Aren' we all?"

Momchillo did not give Fret the chance to interrupt and pressed the tome further into the ferret's paws."But it's yours. None of my business unless you want it to be."

"Whatches in de book?" Butch interrupted, and hastily Fret hid it from view.

"Er- l-lots of er- really, really boring stuff with plenty of big, big c-complicated words."

The beaver's look of horror made them all laugh (even Butch joined in).

"You know Fret." Began Momchillo. "You should-"

The mouse was interrupted by a deafening roar that sent all their ears flat against their heads.

"W-whatch was dat?" Butch whimpered.

Snakeskin placed a finger against his paw in the universal gesture for silence. It was too much for the young beaver, to be in danger immediately after escaping, and he whimpered again.

"Shhhh Butch." Fret put a paw on his shoulder (or as high along the babe's arm as he could reach). "It's going to be fine."

Momchillo's eyes darted around the cavern, in search of the roaring's source. When he saw it, he froze. A tremendous beast, as large as three badgers stacked atop one another, emerged from a nearby cavern. It was a great living mountain of shaggy black fur, and it shook the mouse to the bone. His guess had been closer than Snakeskin's. The beast resembled a wolverine, broad shouldered and sharp-clawed, yet lacked the colouring of one and seemed to possess no tail.

"I-I thought you said there wasn't a bear?"

Fret could not reply. His eyes were wide and wet in terror, and his jaw hung open as if screaming in silence.

"Wha're ye waitin' fur? _Run fer i'!_ "

Butch did as he was bid, his webbed feetpaws furiously slapping the cold ice. Snakeskin followed his own advice and raced like the wind. Momchillo turned to flee and was scrambling on all fours a fair distance away, when he realized that Fret hadn't moved. Instantly, he slid to a halt and spun around to see.

 _No._ Was all he could think. "Fret! _Fret!_ Fret you have to run!"

The ferret was three shades whiter than Snakeskin, unable to hear him and quivering on the spot. He could not even squeak in terror as the bear lifted him into the air. Escape was not possible.

Momchillo could not pry his eyes away. He had seen this. He had seen this all before. Fret was tossed like a grape, and he flew through the air. Throwing common sense aside, the mouse raced back towards the bear. Nonononononono! This couldn't be happening! Not now! Everything had been going so- so _well!_

The bear's jaws opened wide and swallowed the falling ferret whole. Momchillo stopped running. He was certain he stopped breathing and quite sure his heart stopped too.

 _We were... we were getting along._

* * *

 _Footnote: Some of you may have noticed the line 'it's a gruffalo' spouted by one of the toads. For those not in the know The Gruffalo is a kid's picture book about a mouse walking through the woods and tricking the predators within that he's meeting a monster called the Gruffalo. Which turns out to be real. Which happens to like eating mice. Buuut this mouse is basically Gonff the Mousethief (as cunning as they come) and cleverly evades capture. There's an animated film that's fifteen or so minutes long if you're all *that* interested. (This is me. Rambling.)_

 _Did I want to leave you all on a cliffhanger? Absolutely not! Buuut the other half of this chapter got deleted so I decided I would just publish what I had so far (before this is lost ya know) and give you another chapter soon-ish. The*next* one should have loads of action!_

 _And yes, Fret has been eaten again. It happens. (I know, I overuse my tropes- but you shall see why this is worth it next time)._

 _Stay tuned!_


	63. The Bear Belly Bog-Dweller Brawl!

**A/N: You know... I really expected to get this chapter out quicker. Alas, farm work. Buut I think it's worth the wait? Call this the climax of this arc if you will ;)**

 **One-Eye: Fear not, Fret has plot armour!**

 **AlexFalTalon: No need to Fret over ferrets ya know, they always land on their... heads hehehe. And yes he does have some degree of Plot Armour (but I need him alive... for now... muahahahaha!), but it's likely of the big and heavy kind he'd complain about if he knew it existed. More attempts at comedy coming your way!**

 **Sebias: Yes, Snakeskin would. He might not get the chance but it's the thought that counts. The toads are just your standard incompetent baddies ya know. Still threatening, still evil, but you just have to laugh at their antics. Asmodeus, Baliss and Mr Death for those not in the know, are snakes from the Redwall books. I don't know where they're all from- Asmodeus is from Redwall and that's all I am certain of- but Momchillo and Fret likely heard it at abbey school. The toads on the other paw... didn't go to school XD**

 **Abrahem: Any and all rumours are perfect for the corsair arc. Really I'm not sure what to do with *any* of them yet- beyond perhaps Blendfur. I think we need a few more characters in the Northlands? Might swell up that plotline a bit buuut... would you guys really complain? We're still in the drawing boards here as to what they'll *do*- but the reason rumours are perfect is because they help flesh out the Manywhispers.**

 **Yes- it's personally a massive pet peeve of mine when something remains unfinished. Like, you know someone wanted to say something but you don't know what! The horror! The mental agony! The new and exciting way to develop Fret.**

 **Ah, kidnapped by Marik... we shall see where they are... hehehehe... good guesses though. You know I love reading them.**

 **Which is why I'm a little bugged FFN didn't send over your review earlier! I got the notification for the Stannis review about... a week or two ago? I assume when you posted it. And then I moderated it. And theeeeen... Well it's here now at least, right?  
**

 **So another interesting guess- Fret as Stannis XD. I can see him being cold and humorless (but I can see him going a lot of ways tbh) although... Shireen... wouldn't happen.**

 **Ah, I looked up the quote and I can see... the similarities. I wouldn't call it direct inspiration (honestly thought I was being original :() although there *is* such a thing as subconcious imitation- you know, you get a good idea and think so badly that it's yours but then when you try and think back to where you got it from you realize that it's dangerously similar to something else. A coincidence, if you will. (They happen often around me...) *Is tempted to change it* I mean I probably won't but this whole copying thing gets a little worrying sometimes...  
**

 **Yup, being the bait is family tradition. Snakeskin's been eaten a fair few times himself, don'tcha know? I don't think Snakeskin should be judged toooo harshly for this- especially when you look at other vermin parents. Sure he's no Sickletail- but he's a far-cry from Longclaw too. Hehehe _Wonders whether or not to be vague_ You know what, I'll just say it. She is going to come back as Marik's (supposed :P) daughter. No point in resurrecting her if she didn't have a part to play, you know.**

 **In regards to the audiobook, Jack the Quick (here known as Socca Kingkiller) has offered to do the voice of Momchillo. No idea what he sounds like but I don't have much of an idea for Momchillo to be honest XD**

 **One last thing, well, two things. Did I ever specify how Clogg lost his eye? Did I ever leave any implications? And Momchillo's tail is... pink, right? You offered to help look through stuff** **sooo er- do you mind if I employ you now?**

 **Remnants: Hehehe, he suffers quite a bit, doesn't he? Weell that should probably maybe come to a halt soon...**

 **Keldor: I love the puns. I _love_ puns. XD  
**

 **Berserker88: I just love it when you go on your (killing) er- review sprees. Your reviews nicely summarized the whole arc basically. Momchillo's development is continuing to go smoothly- more is on it's way! I love writing Butch- has a fun accent (and an overgrown dibbun is just too good an opportunity to pass up)  
**

 **I missed writing the pirates. We should get more of them when Fret and Momchillo are finished with their adventure. Yeah... *scenewasn'tmeanttobesaucymumblemumble*Which should be three chapters from now *at most*  
**

 **Wrath is about to be unleashed... Although I was a _little_ tempted to let Fret stew in acids for a bit and move on to other arcs hehehe  
**

* * *

Fret expected to land on anything from sharp teeth to stomach acids, luckily he hit a wooden platform instead. Headfirst. Stars danced before his eyes. What was happening? What was going on? Had he drifted off? Was he dreaming? Perhaps he'd fallen asleep on Butch's shoulders?

The pain told him otherwise, it felt like his skull had nearly split in two. The ferret could not see anything, it was rather hard to see when it looked like the heavens themeselves had decided to fall on him. But his nose still worked, and an earthy acid, eerily familiar, became known to him. It was not the same kind of slime as slobber (and he knew far too much about slobber from prior experiences), it was Slimegut!

"Gotcha warlord! Ha! Thought you could escape me, did you?" Webbed fingers grabbed him by the scruff and lifted him into the air. "Think again, stinkball!" The fat toad kicked the platform repeatedly. "Get going boys! Before those bats turn up!"

Fret's vision adjusted, and he found himself face to face with the leering toad.

"Ohohoho! The things I'm going to do to you boy! You almost ruined me! Ha!" Slimegut pulled him closer, so that there was no space between them, their noses squished against one another. "Wanna know what getting eaten actually feels like? What about flying? Ever wanted to fly? A shave? All that fur must be itchy! Maybe you'd like to swim too, but I have to warn you, I get very _competitive_ in the water. Shall we start with lunch?"

The ferret doubted the toad would actually eat him, at least, not until he'd been proven valueless. At the same time, he wouldn't put it past the great brute and had no desire whatsoever to see anybeast's insides!

As a child his claws had been a subject of much contention. Bella wanted them blunted, Montague the Recorder wanted them clipped, but Constance had had her way and his claws had stayed sharp (or rather, as sharp as ferret claws were). It was yet another thing he was grateful to her for.

Slimegut appreciated it less, but it was rather hard to appreciate getting clawed in the face.

"Aaaaaaaah! It's blinded me! It's blinded me!" Fret had gone for the eyes with his first slash. A kind of frenzied panic pumped through the ferret, who's claws seemed to be everywhere at once now. His legs were kicking, his jaws snapping, and his paws scratching. It looked rather ridiculous, and such uncontrolled scrambling was more befitting a dibbun about to be bathed. But Slimegut did not have much experience dealing with those...

"Swamphide! Swampbreath! Get over he-aaaaaaaowowowowow! Not the finger, not the finger!"

Fret had made his choice back when he'd jumped down the hole. He was not going to let this toad win. Not now when he'd just been so happy!

"B-but Chief! Who's gonna move the arms then?"

"Forget the arms and pull this vermin off! Aaaaaaaaaaaaaah!"

Fret felt a pair of strong arms rip him free of Slimegut. The fat toad fell on his rump, continuing to holler and scream about the numerous scratches all over his face.

"Hold still!" Cried the toad that was Swamp-something. Fret was not sure which one it was and frankly didn't care. He twisted his head around and made to bite the toad's neck. The amphibian was faster and stepped backwards. The amphibian was also an idiot and stepped off the platform.

"Aaaaaaaaaaah-oof!"They hit a platform below the first and Fret was glad such a flabby toad had cushioned his fall. The pressure round his chest now weakened, the ferret shot to his feetpaws. His heart was beating fast, far faster than he was used to.

A pair of dumbstruck toads were staring at him in shock. After all, nobeast was supposed to drop in from a platform above. They turned swiftly to anger and both pounced simultaneously, with battlecries that filled Fret's heart with fear. Instinctively, the young ferret curled in on himself with a whimper.

For once fortune seemed to be on his side, however, and the two, as if oblivious to one another, collided mid-air.

Fret had no time to even breathe a sigh of relief, for Slimegut had hopped down from the upper parts of the 'bear', livid with rage. A webbed fist slammed into his muzzle. He was quite sure he'd lost a tooth...

"I'll kill you." The toad growled, his hands tightening around the ferret's neck. "I'll kill you for thi-aaaaAAAAAAAAAAAAAAH!"

Fret's claws dug into the appendages holding him. He was not much of a fighter, and never had been. Matiya could have, and had, knocked him to the ground in half a heartbeat. A beast like Bork needed far less time (and far less effort...) But he had claws, the toad did not. He had teeth, the toad did not. And his fangs were sharp. He kicked Slimegut's slimy gut as much as he could, the claws on his feetpaws raking cut after cut into his opponent's unprotected flab. They weren't particularly deep or anything, but it was all he could do.

And for once, it was enough.

The chief toad, still screaming, teetered off this second platform, and burst through the bear skin- still clinging to Fret's neck. Slimegut hit the ice with a thud and a groan. Fret pulled himself free of the webbed fingers, glad that the fat creature had not landed on top of him. He was rather less glad when the bear _did_.

* * *

Momchillo could hardly believe his eyes. One moment the bear had eaten Fret, then it's arms had gone limp, it's belly had wobbled; as if somebeast had landed within; and apparently it had suffered a bout of indigestion so bad it had come crashing onto the ice! The mouse knew from experience that Fret stunk worse than Hellgates, but to take down a bear with flavor alone...

Confusion and surprise turned to delight when the ferret's black and white form scrambled back up the humongous beast's jaws. "Fret!"

* * *

Fret padded past the sharp teeth as fast as his paws would carry him. He scrambled along the ice, slipping and tripping in his panic.

"Oh no you don't!" A long, sticky tongue caught him by the leg and brought him to the ground. The ferret's claws stabbed into the frozen water in an attempt to pull away, but all he succeeded in doing was drawing long gashes along the frozen water. Slowly, but surely he was being dragged back in.

"Oh no ye don'!" Fret had, in his panic, forgotten about Snakeskin, Momchillo and Butch, yet he doubted he'd ever been happier to see anybeast. They came running to him now, the latter far behind, huffing and puffing.

Momchillo was the first to seize him, the stoat following right after. Each held him by a wrist and pulled with all their might.

"We've got you Fret!" The mouse grunted, his teeth gritted in determination.

"Don't let him get away! Pull you idiots! Pull!" Shouted Slimegut.

Several more toads must have joined the tug of war, for now both Snakeskin and Momchillo were swiftly loosing ground.

"L-let go!" Fret stammered. He was panicking again. "G-get the bats. G-get out of-"

"I've los' two kits too many!" Snakeskin snapped. "I ain' loosin' any more no thank ye!"

"B-but they'l hurt y-"

"Oh shut up, will you?" Momchillo growled. "Now is not the time to start being noble! We're _not_ letting go! And we're _not_ leaving you! And we are _not_ -"

"PULL!" Came a deep croak from within the bear.

Snakeskin's grip failed and the stoat landed on his rump. Momchillo lost balance, but refused to let go. Both mouse and ferret were pulled swiftly along the ice. Fret whimpered. They were doomed... and Momchillo, stupid as always, refused to save himself! Butch was the one that did the saving. Having finally caught up to the others, the beaver babe grabbed hold of the mouse's tail.

Dibbun or not, the beaver was big and heavy. What his feetpaw lacked in claws, they made up for in size and traction. What he lacked in strength, he made up for in flab. It was not enough to win the pulling match of course, but it did give Snakeskin time to free his spear. It also gave the stoat enough time to realize that the tongue they were wrestling with, was far too thin to belong to a bear.

"Toads..." He snarled to himself. Then, louder, he spoke again. "Ye 'ave got te the coun' of three afore I cut this tongue in'o stew! One! Two! Three!"

The tug of war ended abruptly. The de-fact rope shot back into the bear. Butch fell flat on his back and Fret and Momchillo toppled over him. The stoat grinned and leaned casually on his spear.

"Alright, everybody out! Out!" Slimegut was the first to leave the bear-costume, followed swiftly by his dozen or so lackeys. "I don't know who you are, or who you think you are but that ferret is mine!" He snapped, stomping closer to the snake hunter.

Snakeskin was unimpressed. "I don' know 'oo ye are, or 'oo ye think ye are, bu' I don' care. That ferre' over there is me gues'. In other words 'e's mine, now be a good frog an' 'op along now, why don' ye?"

"I am a toad!" The toad shrieked, sending spittle everywhere.

"I am a toadie!" The stoat repeated, his voice high-pitched and giggly.

"That doesn't sound anything like me!"

"That doesn' soun' anythin' like me!"

Slimegut swung for the stoat, but snakes were faster and Snakeskin was faster still. He sidestepped the blow with ease, before casually bringing the flat of his spear-blade into the side of his opponent's head.

"Alrigh', I'll do the talkin' ye can do the repeatin'." The white-furred stoat turned to the remaining toads. "'Ere's the deal. Ye all scramble away now, afore the 'ole flock-a-bats show up. Ye loose yer prisoners, yer digni'ee an' yer bear suit 'coz I wan' it. Bu' ye keep yer worthless lives."

Slimegut pushed himself back up, yet drew swiftly out of the stoat's striking distance. "You're one to make threats! No-one here even knows who you are! There are thirty of us-"

"Actually Chief we only have about two doz-"

"Apparently there are fifty of us!" Slimegut shrugged. "Either way there are only three of you, so no matter how many of us there are, we outnumber you!"

"I 'ave a spear." Snakeskin pointed out.

"We all have spears! Flyspit! Get us our spears!" A small toad slunk back into the bear to do the chieftain's bidding. He emerged a moment later, with a dozen or so polearms and several sets of knives, daggers and swords. All of a sudden Snakeskin looked a little less confident. "So. We have more toads and more spears. We win, you loose."

"Aye, ye win agains' the four of us." The stoat admitted with a careless shrug (filled with nervous tension). "But Snap'll be 'ere any minute now. An' 'e's no' gonna give ye any chances te turn away. So ye ough' te surrender now. Oh, an' that cloak is Fre'ie's. I made it fur 'im, so I wan' it back." He pointed at the round metal bob wrapped around Slimegut's neck. "An' 'e wants 'is yo-yo back too, so 'and over that necklace-thing."

Slimegut's eyes darted from Fret, who was standing now- threatening at any moment to have a panic attack, to Snakeskin. He caught sight of the stoat's hypnotized eye and everything seemed to make sense. "You're Mad-Eye Marik!"

Fret facepawed, Butch gasped dramatically, Momchillo said 'um' and Snakeskin scowled.

"I ain' a thin' like tha' kitnapper."

The fat toad pointed at the ferret. "But he said his father gave him the cloak! So you're clearly his father, which would make you the world-famous warlord Mad-Eye Marik."

Butch giggled. "You actually fell for itch! Hihihihihi!"

Momchillo tried to keep a straight face, but it was hard to when Slimegut looked so.. betrayed! He snickered, then he coughed and soon the mouse was bent double with laughter.

He wasn't the only beast either, Snakeskin had to lean on his spear for support, elsewise he'd have slipped to the floor.

"Y-y-you lied to me!"

"I knew he was lying!" Longtongue butted in.

"S-so you're valueless?"

"No!" Fret snapped. Well, he was to them- but he wasn't valueless!

"Should've eaten him while we had the chance." Swamphide growled.

"You shouldn't have." Momchillo shook his head, still laughing. "Fur everywhere, indigestion, have you smelled the guy?" Lightly he punched Fret on the shoulder. "This beast is entirely inedible."

"He'd have tasted good with honey!"

Momchillo continued to snicker. "N-no he wouldn't have."

Butch tapped the mouse on the shoulder and bent down to whisper into his ear. "He kinda did."

"I heard that." Fret muttered, disgruntled to say the least by the current conversation.

Snakeskin heard it too. "So _that's_ why the snake liked ye! I'm curious Butcher, what did 'e taste like?"

"Is this really important!?" The ferret rubbed his chest fur in frustrated awkwardness. It was an entirely new sensation. And not one he liked much...

The young beaver wriggled his paw up and down to mean 'so-so'. "Nice and sweetch butch wid un-pleasant undewtones. Also, fur."

" _Butch!_ "

The beaver grinned sheepishly at Fret's look of annoyance. "Sawwy."

"Shut up!" Slimegut shouted before anybeast could continue. "This changes nothing- we are going to tan your hides, and now that we know you're all useless- we will kill every last one of you!"

There was a long, drawn-out silence, wherein all the good humour of the party of four vanished instantly.

The fat toad grew impatient. "Well? What are you waiting for!? Get the hairbeasts!"

"Instead of thinking of a plan," Fret growled, as the toads slowly encircled them. "You thought it was a good idea to talk about what I taste like..."

"We were stallin' fer time!" Snakeskin and Momchillo growled in unison.

"We were?" Butch asked. The beaver babe noticed Snakeskin's twitching head and gave his affirmation. "We were!"

"Brilliant idea." Fret muttered through gritted teeth. His ears flattened themselves against the top of his head. "And what do we do _now_?"

"Get be'in' me. An' when I say 'charge' run like the win'." Snakeskin lowered the spear, his good eye darting from one opponent to another, searching for weaknesses.

"Hey!" Momchillo suddenly shouted, pointing behind Chief Slimegut. "Look it's a snake!"

"I'm not falling for that, rat." The fat toad shook his head, his chins wobbling like a sack of pudding. "You think I'm stupid, don't you? Well I'm not! I'm smart! I am very, very smart!"

Even some of the toads were looking at him with skepticism, to say nothing of the mismatched quartet.

"It's _true!_ I am very smart! So smart that I-"

Butch raised a large paw, deliberately widened his eyes and pointed behind the amphibian. "Itches a giant, free-legged dwagon fly!"

Slimegut growled, and hopped on the spot in rage. "Stop underestimating my-"

"Chaaaaaaaarge!" Snakeskin barreled into the Chief mid-air. Slimegut fell on his rump with a soft _thud_ and a groan. Fret, Momchillo and Butch followed swiftly, and raced past the stunned toads before they could react.

"In'o the bear! In'o the bear!" The white furred stoat cried, lifting the muzzle. Fret, who was in the lead, hesitated. That didn't stop him from going inside of course- Butch pushed him in whether he liked it or not and Momchillo followed suite.

A dozen, slimy, pink tongues shot towards them like a volley of slobbery arrows. Unfortunately for the toads, all they latched onto were the closed jaws of their bear skull.

"Alrigh' kids... we'll si' tight till Snap comes an'-" A spear burst through the fur next to Snakeskin's head. The toads followed it up with a second that narrowly missed Momchillo's tail. "Outta the bear! Outta the bear!"

Longtongue was unfortunate enough to have opened the jaw-gate when Snakeskin said this. He was smacked aside first by Snakeskin's spear, and then (more powerfully) by Butch's tail.

The toads were armed of course, but they were used to 'fighting' a single scared beast. Beating somebeast with a club was much easier when said beast did not fight back. It also had to be mentioned, that the toads were not particularly used to armed combat.

A pair charged half-heartedly, but stopped abruptly when Snakeskin waved a spear in their path. The stoat promptly swept them off their feet with another wave of his weapon. This was little encouragement for the other amphibians.

Swamphide fly-kicking Snakeskin (in a display of acrobatics never seen before or since) was more of a morale boost, though now the toads charged without cumbersome things like polearms. A dozen swarmed upon Butch and beat the beaver babe with their fists. Snakeskin, too, was swiftly surrounded and beaten. Fret watched in horror as Swamphide attempted to strangle the flailing Momchillo. It was a relief that none of them had been stabbed yet, but Butch was crying and Snakeskin was unable to do much now and if Momchillo ended up frog-food...

He was torn away from his thoughts when Slimegut's slimy fingers closed over his shoulder, and spun him around to meet the toad's fist. "Guess where you're going 'warlord'!" The toad didn't actually give Fret a chance to guess, he stomped on the ferret's chest with enough force to wind him. "I will do every horrible thing I can think of to you." He leered, lifting the ferret back up to face him.

It was a mistake he should never have made. Instinct was driving him now, and his instincts told him to bite. At this proximity their was no stopping Fret from chomping down on Slimegut's face. The ferret clung on determinedly and the fat toad hollered.

"Aaaaaaaaaaaaaah! Getitoff! Getitoff!" A pair of toads grabbed the ferret by the tail and made to yank him away, but all Fret did was sink his teeth deeper into the chieftain's slimy flab. Fret's paws found and clung to the yoyo Slimegut had so unwisely decided to keep around his neck. It was _his_ toy! _His_ Nuncle had given it to him and the last of Connington's gifts would _not_ end up decorating a fat fool!

It was not the physical clinging on that was difficult, his teeth did all the work for him. He could taste the toad's blood in his mouth, and threatened to gag at any moment. His tail, not often used as a rope, was also under strain. The ferret's heart was beating swiftly and demanded more and more air. But it was hard to breathe with his nose all squished up against flab. The smell also made his job more unpleasant. Slimegut's very flesh seemed to reek something rotten and Fret had already been taken out by his breath once before...

"AAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAH!" Slimegut screamed louder than ever. Flyspit and Swampbreath had succeeded in tearing the ferret off of their Chief. They had also succeeded in tearing off a chunk of his nose.

Fret was slammed hard against the ice and the yoyo he'd just managed to get back rolled out of his tired paws. Weakly he spat out a piece of the toad's snout and any blood still in his mouth. He felt sick just looking at it, and searched desperately along the ice for his toy. Connington's gift. The last piece of Redwall he had left...

"You'll _die_ for that!" Slimegut yelled, slamming a fist in between his eyes. The chieftain snatched Fret's head off the ground only to bring it down again. "Stupid! Fake! Warlord!" The ferret was dizzy after the first blow, too dazed and too tired to fight any more. He could hear Momchillo snarling and a toad screaming, Butch crying and Snakeskin shrieking.

Well.

It had sounded like Snakeskin at first, but the second time he heard it more clearly. The pitch was higher than the stoat's and seemed to echo through the air.

"What was that?" A particularly small toad was lifted off the ground by a winged shadow. Two more tore Slimegut off of Fret and a fourth rescued Momchillo.

Panic spread through the Yellowbellies, who began to shout amongst themselves.

"Who'sit?"

"What's going on?"

There came the echo of a scream, and a soft whistling as Slimegut hit the ice a short distance away.

"Chief! Chief are you alright?"

"I'm... fine!" The fat toad groaned and growled. He made to push himself to his feet, but was swiftly slammed back onto the ice by the shadows from before.

"G-geroff me-"

"Silence toad, toad!"

"Be quiet while father speaks, speaks."

The toad tribe watched in horror as dark clouds seemed to pour out of the caves above them. A swarm of bats, dozens and dozens of them came flapping out in a rustle of flapping wings. They were the ones outnumbered now, and they knew it! The beatings stopped abruptly, and as if scared of the evidence, the toads backed away from their victims.

Momchillo, too exhausted to fight any longer, slid to the ground. Palour was returning to his features as relief washed through him. Slimegut was shaking like a leaf, almost pitifully, as the familiar form of Chief Snap landed before him.

The bat chieftain was beaming with pride. "Sap, Tree Fang, good work, work, work." His smile vanished instantly as he turned his gaze towards the pinned toad. Slimegut swallowed audibly. "So this is the bear, bear, bear..." Snap hurled a gob of spittle upon the unfortunate amphibian, before turning to glare at the other toads.

The Yellowbellies screamed in unison, and scattered in panic. Quite a few crashed into each other, even more ran into waiting bats. It was their turn to be afraid now and afeared they were. Helter skelter they scattered, like leaves on a breeze.

"Oh no you don't, don't, don't!" Snap roared. "Round up the toadies! Round them up, up, up!"

Fret couldn't care less about the inevitable capture and brutal punishment of the toads. His friends were surprisingly well-off. Butch was sniffling but seemed unhurt, Snakeskin was sporting a black eye and gently stroking the beaver babe's back. Momchillo was grinning and only seemed to be short a tooth. The same relieved euphoria that had filled the young ferret before the 'bear's' appearance returned with force- as did the exhaustion.

 _They had won! They were alive! They could still go home!_

He was no doubt a mess, and no doubt looked stupid, but Fret smiled the goofiest smile in the world. Everything seemed to be worth it now, the waterfall, getting eaten by Butch, the tunnel, the lake, the other waterfall... even the snakenest! Home felt so tantalizingly close...

The sound of the toads' panicked screaming seemed distant. Gradually it faded away, replaced by his own soft snoring. Not that he could hear it of course, he was far too busy getting some well-deserved rest!

* * *

 _Footnote: Woohoooo! Quite the semi-climax, eh? We should have one or two more chapters of the Bat Arc before leaving Fret and Momchillo (and all the rest) for a little while. I think some celebration is in-order as far as the next chapter (I wanna keep it condensed to one...) is concerned, but there's a fair bit left to get through in regards to where everyone's going._

 _Sooo... something to look forwards to, eh?_


	64. Bats Are Not Party Beasts

**A/N: Waycaster: More than one celebration XD To be fair, the kind of things I usually write into action scenes *gazes awkwardly at the KFP fics under my name* don't really fit into this fic hence my lack of them. (Fret being used as a rope in tug of war is proooobably the closest that comes to it XD) Granted this arc is a bit more light-hearted than say... Clogg flaying somebeast.**

 **Joe Reddam: Glad you're still reading (haven't seen you in a while) and also glad there was some tension there XD**

 **Abrahem: Such a hard question that one... was that ferret maid meant to be a diversion? No and yes and yes and no... I mean. I had no idea where I was going at the time XD I don't think it was diversion- but at the same time I remember deliberately leaving it vague. I do tend to get ideas on the fly so I like to give myself some wiggle room in case I think of something good/better. It's also why my foreshadowing can be... messy... Although I do have an idea of how she survived that 'fits'.**

 **Yes! This arc is finally over and the Slave Rebellion will be the climax of Book II. So maybe at most a dozen more chapters. *Maybe*.**

 **Yeah, Stannis isn't gonna burn Shireen but I do think the poor girl will get burnt and spread greyscale around the wall... Val foreshadows this in her talks with Jon (Val is a fun character- Mance Rayder's wife's sister). And Melisandre is at the wall... with Shireen...**

 **What happens to Clogg... Has changed quite a bit over time but I have some ideas...**

 **I love the idea of Threeclaw sounding like Jerry's musketeer nephew XD You have given me a few ideas now about his language things hehehehe... As for him being a relation to Snakeskin... I can't say yes or no buuuut- ye got any evidence?**

 **Is he... hmmm... why would he tell Clogg about it though? The Manywhispers is a mystery... Yes, slowly but surely he is coming to terms with himself. Symbolism was semi-intentional XD**

 **I was just checking because I don't think I did- and I got an interesting idea recently which I'm gonna slide on in soooo hehehehehe Momchillo's tail is pink then, I thought it was but just needed to double check.**

 **Bats, snakes... Any stoats and toads? Fourth of July sounded rather fun XD**

 **Sequel is gonna happen eventually (and I say this with certainty, because like Thanos, it is inevitable) but it'll likely be quite... a while... Not sure about adding a Book IV but I have considered it... in part because er- Book II was so long and I don't want III to be even longer XD**

 **AlexFalTalon: Well yes, for a young beaver, which is still bigger than young mouse and young ferret.**

 **Sebias of Redwall: That he will... and he will hate it. Toads, as Keldor pointed out, taste worse than he does XD That was Berserker88 Seb, the other awesome reviewer who's funny. It's so hard to tell them apart sometimes ya know? XD**

 **Berserker88: I mean they *could*- but they won't XD Things can never go easy for Fret (and he was likely to dislike flying/being carried plus their verbal tic anyways).**

 **Keldor: That they are- finally no more twisty tunnels! To be fair- back when Bella was on her 'bathing spree' Fret was younger and less likely to bite someone's nose off. I mean, Constance would have struggled less (because she did have some measure of maternal control over him) but she was also less likely to er- abruptly do it.**

 **Certainly a better outcome than Slimegut ending up stuck with the taste of ferret :P**

 **And so dear friends and beloved readers, the Fret and Momchillo arc (of Book II) has come to an end.**

* * *

A distant whirring penetrated the walls of Fret's slumber, and a nearby growl summoned him forth from the sweet realm of sleep. The ferret did not open his eyes, letting his other senses discover his environment. A distinct itching along his front told him he was laying on one of Snakeskin's furry blankets. Which meant that he was safe- the toads would never have been able to get one of their slimy fingers on the stoat's precious bedcloths.

Yawning awake, he stretched out his limbs. The ferret rolled onto his back and rubbed the sleep out of his eyes with another yawn.

Blinking into reality he found, to his surprise, that he was in a new cavern. The walls here were made of stone, not ice and the only light seemed to be coming from a tiny firefly.

The whirring stopped. "You're awake!" It was Momchillo's voice, but the ferret couldn't see where he was yet. Just as his vision began to adjust, and just as a vague outline of the mouse was coming into view, a candle flickered to life and illuminated Momchillo's grin.

Fret sat up suddenly and had to momentarily shield his eyes from the sudden lighting. "Careful with that!" He snapped, and Momchillo, in his haste to obey, nearly put it out. "Sorry." Fret added immediately after, as usual he'd snapped too quickly.

"Nah, should've warned you." The mouse placed the candle on a bedside table. "So, how are you feeling? Not hurt?"

The ferret flopped back onto the blanket with a third yawn. "Arms are sore, feetpaws are tired and I can still taste toad... I've been better." While his energy was replenished- what he still sorely missed was optimism, the uplifting feeling of rescuing Butch and the bats had all been dreamed away leaving Fret in his usual state of glumness.

"I know what'll cheer you up!" Suddenly, a round metal bob shot out from the mouse's paw and caught the startled Fret right on the nose.

"What was that for!?" The ferret howled, rubbing his sore sniffer.

"Sorry! I'm sorry!" Momchillo hastily unwound the yo-yo's rope from around his paw. "I- I was just trying to give it to you!"

"Well try handing it over next time!" Fret snapped, snatching the yo-yo from his grip.

Momchillo's ears drooped, and all of a sudden the mouse was unable to maintain eye contact. "I got your the cloak back too. " He added half-heartedly. "And Snakeskin wanted me to give you the helmet..."

Fret felt the twinges of guilt begin to toy with his heart. He looked away and fixed his gaze determinedly on his Nuncle's toy. It meant more to him than he'd ever verbally admit, and if Momchillo wasn't looking he'd have been nuzzling it with the care and affection he very rarely showed a living thing. "Thank you." There was a brief pause and then Fret continued, finding that the back of his yo-yo was a very interesting thing to stare at- especially when one did not want to stare at Momchillo. "F-for the yo-yo. A-and the cloak and- an- and n-not leaving me." He made a strange sound that was almost like a cough but sounded more like a... squeal?

"So er- what happened?" Fret began idly flicking the yo-yo. "Last I remember was all the toads panicking an-and that bat showing up."

Momchillo shrugged. "Not much really." The mouse frowned. "Well, the bats are throwing a party and there's a feast going on but I've been up here with you the whole time so I'm not too sure."

Fret blinked and stopped flicking. "You missed out on a feast to watch me sleep?"

The brownish-yellow mouse rolled his eyes. "Well when you put it like that it just sounds weird. Somebeast had to watch over you to make sure you were okay and didn't get lost when you woke up."

"And you volunteered?"

"Well... yes... I er- wanted to give you back your toy."

The awkwardness of the silence that followed was tangible and the ferret was almost glad when his stomach interrupted it.

Momchillo grinned. "Sounds like you're hungry. Come on, there should still be some food left." The mouse helped Fret to his feetpaws before picking up the candle. "I think it's fair to warn you though that..." He made sure nobeast was looking or within earshot, before whispering. "Bat food isn't really... well... they eat grubs."

"Yuck!" Said Fret, far too loudly. Luckily nobat seemed to have heard. Well... there was nobat there... The ferret's stomach gave another impatient gurgle. "I-is there nothing edible?"

"There's you." Momchillo snickered, before shrugging. "Like I said, I haven't really been to the feast. But that's what Snakeskin said. Also, do not, under any circumstances play Bat Catch."

"What's that?"

"Well... it's catch." The mouse explained. "Only er- you'd be the ball."

Fret's eyes narrowed suspiciously. "You're pulling my tail."

Momchillo shook his head. "Nope, not this time. Trust me Fret, you really wouldn't like this game."

"Hmmm..." The ferret mused, once more beginning to flick his yo-yo. "So how do you know about it?"

"Let's just say..." Momchillo scratched his chest-fur. "I have some er- personal experience."

Fret could not help snorting in laughter. "So you were the ball?" He could not help snickering either.

The mouse gave the ferret's tail a warning tug. "You'd make a better one if it came to it, Bearfood."

"Bat-toy!"

"Luncheon!"

"Plaything!"

And so, giving one another all sorts of ridiculous names and titles, the pair made their way down the tunnels and towards a large, open cavern where the feast was being held.

The party was still in full-swing by the time they arrived. Several bats were clumped together, singing a rendition of 'Maggy May' that made Snakeskin and Momchillo's appalling music _desirable._ A set of tables had been taken out, stacked high with all sorts of 'delicacies'. Fried beetle eggs, scewered spiders, a soup of boiled worms and snake flesh, large centipedes roasting over a spit, honeyed fireflies, all these and more made Fret go as green as a spring leaf. Friar Gord would not have allowed any of these things into the Redwall kitchens and the Badgermum wouldn't have allowed them into Redwall!

And yet, it was so hard to ignore his hunger. The last thing he'd eaten had been the previous day's revolting Hellgates Stew- and Fret was quite sure he'd go to Hellgates if he ate another bite of that.

"There ye are!" A pair of white paws, Snakeskin's, clamped down upon the shoulders of mouse and ferret. "Bin waitin' fer ye to show up! 'Ow ye feelin' Fret?"

"I'm fine." He replied, prizing his eyes away from the 'feast' in an attempt to not puke. Which was rather difficult. He could still taste toad...

"'Ungry?" The stoat smiled knowingly. "C'mon, I made sure Snap got the pair of ye some real food. An' I made sure Youn' Butcher didn' scoff it all."

Gently, he guided them towards a corner of the cavern, one that was almost entirely devoid of bats. Probably because Butch took up most of the space. The beaver babe waved as they approached.

"Hello Fretch!"

"Hello." The ferret replied, more interested in getting his paws on the goodies before him. It wasn't much; small pot of barely-spiced hotroot, several loaves of bread (as usual, older than anybeast present), something that could've been meadowcream but smelled more like a bog and three rotten fruit, and some (ice) cold pancakes with honey; but it was much better than anything else available.

"Sleep well?" Snakeskin asked, nonchallantly sipping a bowl of hotroot.

"I did." Fret selected a pancake, but found that not even his sharp teeth could tear it apart.

"Whatch did you dweam aboutch?"

And now his teeth were stuck to the frozen honey!

"Fretch?"

"Lemme 'elp with that." Before Fret could refuse him, Snakeskin snapped the pancake in two, and pulled it free of the ferret's jaws. "Try a loaf."

Fret chewed on one sullenly, noting with bitterness, that it tasted faintly of toad. He was quite sure he'd have indigestion...

"So whatch did you dweam aboutch?" Butch asked again, apparently very interested in this subject.

Fret swallowed, gagged (why had he bitten the stupid chieftain!?), and turned to answer the question with a simple 'nothing'.

"Oh." Butch shrugged and went on for several minutes about his very sweet and childish dream of rolling (and sometimes swimming) through a flower-field, by which time Fret had worked up the courage to take a few more bites of the bread.

"And den you popped out of a flower Fretch!"

"All sneezy and covered in pollen." The ferret muttered. The beaver babe hadn't heard him, but Momchillo almost snorted into the bowl of hotroot.

"I know I keep you amused, mused, mused, but I feel I'm being used, used, used!" Came the bat chorus. The music was so horrendously painful that Fret was relieved when Momchillo struck up some more conversation.

"So what happened to the toads? Last I saw them they were still trying to run away, but the bats caught them all, didn't they?"

Snakeskin chuckled and shook his head. "Finish yer- this ough'a be brekkfis' I suppose- an' I'll show ye what Snap's come up with."

Fret was not sure if he wanted to see, Clogg had flayed a paw for far less of a crime. As much as they deserved it, the ferret doubted he would be able to stomach whatever horrendous fate had befallen them.

As if reading his mind (or the look of frightened horror on his face) Snakeskin shook his head. "Whatever yer thinkin' it ain' what 'appened te 'em."

Fret had been thinking of mangled corpses.

"Ladies and gentlebats, bats, bats!" Boomed the voice of Chief Snap, dragging the young ferret away from his imaginary cadavers. "I hope you're enjoying the feast, feast, feast!"

A tremendous cheer of 'hip-hip-hip-hoo-hoo-hoo-ray-ray-ray' made Fret dizzy.

"As you all know, we have recently been terrorised by a tribe of frogs, frogs, frogs, posing as a bear, bear, bear!"

Momchillo frowned in contemplation. "I thought they were toads."

"Were it not for the efforts of one beast, beast, beast it would still be so, so, so!" The well-built chieftain's eyes seemed to dart towards Fret.

The ferret in question felt Momchillo clap him on the back. His own heart had missed a beat.

"This one, one, one, has waited a long time for recognition, recognition, recognition!"

Snakeskin ruffled the fur between his ears with a chuckle. Butch began whistling through his fingers. Fret, who had never known but always wondered what it was like to face a cheering crowd, who had daydreamed of a moment like this back in Abbot Martin's history lessons, flushed with pride and stood a little straighter.

"BARTOK! BARTOK! BARTOK!"

Snakeskin choked on his drink, Momchillo did the spit-take of the century, Butch's whistling turned into a raspberry and Fret felt like somebeast had punched him in the lungs.

Yet, all their reactions were lost in the sea of cheering. Bartok, who had been standing a short distance behind them all, flapped over towards the chieftain amidst the gales of celebration.

"B-b-but he didn't do _anything!_ " Momchillo complained, loud enough to be heard by a generous amount of bats (they had excellent hearing after all).

"Yeah!" Butch agreed. "Fretch is de one dat killed de bear! And de one dat escaped fiwst! And de one dat-"

Quite a lot of the bats were staring now, the cheering noticeably quieter.

"Forget it Butch." The ferret said quietly, silencing the beaver. "Shouldn't have gotten my hopes up anyways." With rather less cheer than most of the bats present, Fret slunk away.

"Now jus' a minute Fret." Snakeskin called after him, but his drooping ears did not seem to do much listening. The stoat growled. "Can I 'ave some privacy fur 'Ellgates sake! What is this a talen' show?"

The onlookers coughed awkwardly in many cases, and almost as one shifted their gaze to the chieftain- who was going on and one about how Bartok had been 'brave, brave, brave'.

"Dat's not true." Butch crossed his paws crossly. "All he did was get slapped by Snakie-skin!"

"It ain' importan'." Snakeskin reassured him. "Now where did Fret go?"

"Had he not, not, not volunteered as sacrifice." Bartok hadn't, but Snap hardly felt compelled to share that now. "The bear, bear, bear would never have been defeated! I know, know, know that I was wrong, wrong, wrong to give you all up, up, up." Theatrically, the chieftain turned towards the other captives. "Can you ever forgive me, me, me?"

Amidst cheers of 'Yes! Yes! Yes!' Snakeskin narrowed his one good eye. "So that's what 'e's doin'." The stoat shook his head, only noticing now that Momchillo had also disappeared. Then he growled, and stomped after the faint scent of mouse.

* * *

He should have known. How many times had he thought it? How many times had he said it? No matter what he did, he was vermin and fate would treat him as such. Fate and everybeast else. Fret had been stupid enough to forget, his hopes had soared. A hero was always welcome at Redwall, even if nobeast liked them. But now bitter, painful disappointment was rushing through him, making a mockery of all his efforts. He had tried, he had succeeded. He had been good! It didn't matter. _Bartok_ was the hero. The bat that had laughed while he went off a waterfall. Who had thrown him down a waterfall! The one that had tried to talk him out of his attempt to rescue everybeast.

 _He_ was the hero, and Fret was nobeast important. The ferret wasn't even sure what he was. Angry? Well, anybeast would be. Sad? Of course! After all he'd gone through he was blatantly ignored in favor of the beast that had put him through hellgates.

Perhaps he was being ridiculous, Snap had saved him in the end. Nevermind that Snap wouldn't have been there had Fret not gotten away... But it was not like the burly chief even knew him. Perhaps it was Bartok that was behind all this? The ferret kicked a stray pebble. The grey bat wasn't smart enough for anything of the sort anyways. He was stupid.

"For the record I think that chieftain's not right in the head." Fret was not sure how Momchillo had found him, but the mouse was here now and looked as grumpy as he did. "But it doesn't matter Fret, let the idiots celebrate. When we get to Redwall Grollo's dad is going to make you a cake shaped like a toad."

This was undoubtedly a pitiful attempt to cheer him up, but Fret was grateful for it anyways. "As long as it doesn't taste like one." Almost instinctively he began flicking the yo-yo.

"I reckon they taste worst that you." Momchillo sat down and lay back on the ice. "This has been quite the adventure hasn't it."

"Nobeast will believe it." Fret said sullenly. "A bunch of toads in a bear suit? Snakeskin? A _beaver_? The Badgermum'll just tell me to stop lying."

"Let's not forget the time we took out a wolverine." Momchillo grinned.

Fret's face fell even lower. Bork, for all his faults, would never have let Bartok throw him off a waterfall.

"That, that, that is very impressive!" It was the jubilant voice of Chief Snap, the last beast Fret wanted to hear from right now. "Wolverines are big, big, big!"

"I know that." The ferret snapped, scowling.

"Of course, course, course." The bat sounded less cheerful as he landed on the ice before them. He glanced at Momchillo. "I don't suppose you could leave us alone, lone, lone?"

The brownish yellow mouse turned to Fret, who shrugged, not meeting his gaze.

"I'll be with Butch and Snakeskin if you need me for anything." The mouse said quietly.

As soon as his pawsteps had faded away, Snap turned towards the ferret before him. "I'm sorry, sorry, sorry."

Fret made an indistinct noise somewhere between a growl and affirmation.

"But I need, need, need Bartok and the others happy, happy, happy so they can forget that I sent them to a bear, bear, bear. I know, know, know you three did most, most, most of the rescuing but I can't have my clan, clan, clan angry with me, me, me."

The ferret idly fixed his gaze onto his still-bouncing yo-yo.

"I just sent these bats, bats, bats to their death. You know, important for the clan, clan, clan can't have them hating me now. What you did was good, good, good! But if everybat thinks you're the hero, hero, hero then they'll still resent me."

"Well maybe they should." Fret's voice was barely more than a whisper, but Snap heard it all the same.

Awkwardly, the burly bat flapped into a more comfortable perch. "If you want, want, want I could-"

"It's fine." Fret snapped. "I don't care." He was lying of course, he cared very much, but Snap did not need to know that. The ferret didn't want, want, want his stupid apologies and he most certainly didn't want to hear his incessant verbal repetition.

Snap grinned, oblivious to the ferret's lack of honesty. "The name is-"

"Chief Snap, I know!" Fret snapped. Why was this beast still talking to him?

Contrary to expectations the chieftain grinned even more widely, most beasts Fret snapped at did not. "And you are Fret, Fret, Fret." Then he hugged him.

The ferret looked momentarily startled, and was also momentarily glad his ribs were bendy- the Chieftain had the grip of a bear!

"Your mates, mates, mates told me."Snap explained, releasing him. "Interesting for vermin, vermin, vermin to live in the Great Abbey, Abbey, Abbey."

He went back to scowling. "Yes. Very interesting."

"You have a very interesting tale, too, too, too! It reminds me of a story I once heard, heard, heard." The bat went on, wrapping what was probably meant to be a reassuring wing around his shoulder. "There was a ferret raised in Redwall, wall, wall, just like you, you, you! And he left, left, left to find his warlord father, father, father! You don't look much like Marik I'm sure you've been told, told, told." He winked at the ferret, who had been startled by the sudden mention of his deepest darkest secret. "It was a good, good, story! Heard it from a traveller. Now, what was his name, name, name? He was banished for being vermin, vermin or something like that, that, that? You know this? His name was, was... Veil! Yes! Veil, Veil, Veil!"

Fret felt a sudden jolt run through him- as if he'd been struck by lightning. Veil... Veil... Veil...

* * *

 _It had started with a strange class. Abbot Martin's lesson made less sense than usual- and even Momchillo seemed confused by some bits! It was a story about Sunflash the Mace, another boring Badgerlord that could singlepawedly smite a vermin horde into dust. The same stupid songs were there, the same battles, the same feasting- all recorded by somebeast Fret did not remember the name of._

 _But it felt like something was missing. The Abbot had skipped several pages and Fret was not sure who Bryrony even was- some angelic mousemaid sent by the Spirit of Martin to save the Badgerlord from death by warlord? It was even more contrived than all the other lessons!_

 _As if to prove his point Grollo asked (for the eighth time that hour) "What was Bryrony doing there?"_

 _Abbot Martin's bespectacled eyes flickered over to Fret, who hastily stopped chewing his quill. "Well she was a mousemaid from Redwall-"_

 _"But what was she doing so far away?" Momchillo interrupted, his burning curiosity tearing apart any manners he had._

 _"Don't interrupt beasts Momchillo. This is a classroom, not a mess-hall." The Abbot said sternly._

 _"Sorry." The young mouse, fixed his gaze towards the floor._

 _Wordlessly Martin tossed him a candied chestnut. He never seemed to toss Fret any..._

 _"Now, what she was doing so far from Redwall is er- heavily disputed. Lots of false recordings." The Abbot waved his paw away. "There's far too much studying involved to cover it er- now. Perhaps later-"_

 _There was a small clamour as Fret, Grollo and Matiya, all averse to studying for various reasons, agreed that it was not important and that it was most likely Martin the Warrior sending her on a quest or something anyways._

 _The Abbot seemed to breathe a sigh of relief, before smiling. "Very well then. We may skip over the whole Bryrony debate for now and move onto more important things!" The old mouse, who hadn't been as old back then, opened the door to the classroom. "It is a beautiful, sunny day and you should not waste it reading in a corner! Er- if you don't mind I'd also like your copies of a History of Mossflower."_

 _Fret did not care much for the Bryrony debate, and was content to spend much of his afternoon not snoring over a dumb book. It was hot and sunny, and for once Matiya decided not to beat his tail blue. Indeed, the whole history lesson had been forgotten by lunchtime. He had just been about to enter Cavern Hole when Momchillo came charging into him._

 _The two were brought to the floor, the ferret was scowling and the mouse was apologizing. "I'm sorry Fret, didn't see you dere!" And then, as if forgetting that he was still pinning his classmate to the ground, the mouse clapped his paws excitedly. "Oooh Fret, guess what? You know dat story we read in class?"_

 _Fret scowled deeper. Trust Momchillo to go and do unnecessary studying. "What about it? Just another badger lord."_

 _The mouse shook his head vigorously, his ears flapping around him like the wings of a bird. "No no no. Dis one has a ferret!"_

 _"Another so called warlord brutally killed by the badger. Yes, I know." For once he hadn't been snoring in the back of the classroom!_

 _"No! Dis one was in de abbey!"_

 _He was a bit taller than the young mouse, and both had the healthy chub of any abbey child- but Fret lacked the strength to push him off. "An' probably more ferrets in his horde- wait, what?"_

 _"Dey found a baby ferret and brought it to de abbey." Momchillo grinned. "It sounds like you!"_

 _"They did?" Fret was suddenly very interested, and no longer annoyed._

 _"Yes, yes. De Recorder let me borrow a book! Wanna see?"_

 _"Yes!" Fret squealed, he couldn't quite contain his excitement. Another ferret in Redwall? Maybe he wasn't so alone after all! It was all he could do to stop himself from instinctively twisting and flipping, as ferrets were wont to do sometimes._

 _The brownish-yellow mouse got off of him, held out his paw, which Fret took, and together they skipped the way to the mouse's room. "I'm at de bit where dis mouse called Byrony names him Veil."_

 _Fret nodded eagerly and followed. What might have happened to Veil? He was dead now of course, that was what history was about. But before that?_

 _About an hour or so later- because Momchillo was a quick reader and Fret liked to skip over the boring bits, the pair closed the book as if trying to contain some horrible monster._

 _"Dat story wasn't very fun." The mouse's voice was as hollow as a drum._

 _Fret nodded mutely, trying to hide the wetness in his eyes. It had been a bad story by all accounts. Veil Sixclaw had been banished for poisoning somebeast, gone to find his father- a warlord, and died saving his mother. And then, the final, most painful twist, was how little the mousemaid seemed to care! He'd saved her life... b-but was still evil!? It did not help matters that he imagined Veil looking a lot like him..._

 _"Fret? Are you alright?"_

 _"I'm fine!" The ferret snapped, scampering away as swiftly as he had come, barely holding back his tears._

 _Constance had found him sobbing helplessly into a pillow a few hours later. He had missed lunch, and of course she was worried. He'd told her everything, and all his worries. How Veil looked and sounded a lot like him, how Abbot Martin hadn't told him about it- because clearly everybeast was worried he'd end up just like Veil and didn't trust him, how he could just imagine being banished!_

 _The big mouse of course, did as she always did, and hugged him tightly. "Fret, sweetling, you're nothing at all like Veil."_

* * *

 _Oh how wrong you were momma..._

Two ferrets raised in Redwall, each fathered by a warlord and a cutthroat... Rejected by the beasts of the abbey- save and except their adoptive mouse mothers... Constance's words had been a great comfort back then, when he hadn't known all he did now... Back when he'd been too young and too stupid to know how the world worked...

"Fret? You okay, okay, okay?"

"Fine." The ferret lied, blinking back into reality. Chief Snap was still there, still holding him. They hadn't moved an inch. "So, what happened to the toads?" He asked, determined to change the subject. His mind was still reeling from the flashback, and now more than ever, he needed a distraction.

The burly bat provided it with hysterical laughter. "Oh you'll want to see, see, see this!"

* * *

"Mercy!" Cried the toads, but the bats gave none.

"Spare us!" Cried the toads, but the bats ignored them

"If you think you can get away with this!" Slimegut hollered as one laughing (and especially large) bat tossed him through the air and into the waiting talons of another. "I- I'll gut all of you!" The fat toad's threats would probably have been taken more seriously if he wasn't tied up and greener-than-usual in the face. As it was his loud complaining was barely noticed by his torturers.

"This Fret." Said Momchillo, reappearing at the ferret's side. "Is Bat Catch."

"Drop me!" Slimegut roared.

"If you say so, so, so!"

"AAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAARGH!" _SPLASH!_

"W-whahat do you mean I wouldn't like this game?" Fret was reduced to laughter in a matter of seconds, all thoughts of Veil vanishing.

"Watching it is a lot more fun." Momchillo agreed.

"Put them down, down, down!" Chief Snap ordered. "Ready the bear, bear, bear and gather the others!"

Slimegut was dragged from the waters and dumped unceremoniously on the ice. His little gang were then dumped on top of him.

"We should never have swallowed that ferret!" The fat chief spat, wriggling his head free of the pile.

"I think we should have! If we'd eaten him properly-"

"I meant as the bear stupid! You numpties were all so surprised when he dropped on the platform!"

"Well I didn't expect him to start clawing me!" Came a muffled (and indignant) voice from the bottom of the pile.

"You idiots! What did you THINK would happen! Where ELSE would he have landed?!"

"Uhhh..."

"We thought you'd take care of him, boss."

"Yeah."

"MUST I DO EVERYTHING!? I tried to handle the slimeball! But by foul treachery the lying sneak-"

"Bit off your nose." Fret cut in, slinking in just out of reach of the toad. He wore a smirk more befitting the son of a warlord than someone desperate to wash the taste of said nose out of his mouth. "And escaped. Twice? Thrice?"

Slimegut sneered. "And so what? You got your tail saved in the end. Weren't you what beat-"

Fret smacked him across the face, laughing gleefully. "Oh but you're right! I didn't! I didn't do _anything_. You tied yourselves up then, didn't you?"

"My tongue ain't tied-"

"You're not threatening." He continued cackling.

"Longtongue got away!" The chieftain seemed desperate to save face. "He'll get you! He'll avenge me! He-he'll-"

"Wanna know what getting eaten feels like?" The ferret interrupted. "What about flying? Ever wanted to fly? A shave? All that skin must get itchy!" Fret turned away, shaking with mirth. "Should've killed me when you had the chance toad!"

"Maybe I will! One day ferret! One day!"

Fret ignored him and slunk back to Momchillo, who had watched it all with a small frown on his face. "I hope the bats don't kill them." The mouse began awkwardly as the ferret sat down besides him.

His companion harrumphed. "I suppose yeah."

"They didn't kill anybeast." The mouse pointed out.

"They would have." Fret said stubbornly. Clogg would have flayed their slimy fingers red, and Veil Sixclaw would have poisoned them and Fret swallowed abruptly. "B-but you're right." He was not Clogg and he was not Veil and as much as Slimegut deserved it Fret did not want the fat toad slain or flayed or poisoned. The ferret stared at his paw, would it one day go red? "I shouldn't have slapped him."

"He deserved that. And I thought it was funny." The mouse now knew to always keep track of Fret's ears during their conversations. Emotion was easily betrayed by the small movements they made. And now, flat as they were, it was obvious his companion was upset. "Although, you are pretty funny in general."

"Yes." There was the hint of a growl in his voice now. "I'm sure it's all very _funny_ to you."

"That's not what I meant. Sometimes you make these really good jokes or you just do something that's so... so..." Momchillo trailed off and rubbed his wrists. "I was just trying to be nice."

"There ye are!" Snakeskin seemed to come out of nowhere. "Ye alrigh' Fret? Seemed kinda down after the 'ole Bartok thin'."

"I'm fine." The ferret lied.

Butch didn't come out of nowhere, but that was mostly because a beast his size was... rather hard to miss. "Don'tch wawy- when we getch to my place de food will be much bedder!"

Several bats seemed offended by this declaration, but ignored their large guest. Fret was confused about what he meant by 'get to my place' and was about to ask when a sudden commotion distracted him.

"Put me down!"

"Lemme go!"

"I'm innocent!"

One by one, the toads were hurled into the 'bear', kicking and screaming futilely. The overly large costume had been rather lavishly desecrated. Propped up on a few logs, dripping in some foul-smelling white substance (Fret did not know, nor want to know what it was) and spotted with random pieces of garbage, it looked like another example of the bat's horrendous cooking.

Slimegut was the last to go. His tongue tried and failed to find purchase on the ice and he sobbed helplessly as slowly but surely he was reeled into his brainchild. Fret almost pitied him. But it was rather hard to pity someone that would have done worse to him were their roles reversed.

As soon as the fat toad was safely tossed in, the 'bear's' jaws were shut and tied together.

"Let this be a lesson to any and all who see our clan, clan, clan as easy pickings!" Chief Snap shouted over the din of cheering and laughing bats. "We are merciful now Slimy ones but, but, but if you ever disturb our peace again we will not be so kind, kind, kind!"

The blubbering of the toads was lost amidst the uproar. The burly bat had done well to secure his position. He'd turned what might've been disaster into his greatest success. Not a single bat would hold a grudge and he'd made himself more popular than ever.

The bear suit, filled to the brim with toads both sobbing helplessly and spewing curses, was pushed onto the stream. Slowly, but surely, it sped away and Fret hoped dearly this would be his last, as Momchillo would put it, 'adventure'.

* * *

 _Footnote: Quite a few scenes were moved over to Book III for the sake of some pacing XD Interesting things I am eager to get to- but we'll get to it eventually! I don't wanna delve too deeply into what they were- one was pretty funny and the other was... more dark..._

 _I might take a small break to finish WASOR (knows that he has been saying that for a while) but I'm undecided XD Hope you enjoyed the chapter!_


	65. Book III: Blood And Secrets

**A/N: These reviews... piled up... Guess that's what I get for leaving this story for a month hehehehe...pleasedon'tkillme... response time** **!**

 **Keldor: Yeah, I imagine Snap only knows the story in passing- he lives a long way away from Redwall and comes from a rather different culture. The Veil story is likely one he knows vaguely but details are definetly lacking. I imagine he is at least smart enough to not bring up 'that one evil ferret' while apologizing to someone XD**

 **Honestly not sure how sympathetic the bats ended up being- or how sympathetic I wanted them to be. They're not evil, and they help the good guys but they can be a nuisance XD Let's hope these Veil thoughts don't torment Fret all the way to Redwall... hehehehehe...**

 **Hmm... Fret the bee... I wonder.. do beavers keep beas...**

 **Hehehe- I looked up several videos and I think squealing fits like a glove. I also agree that ferrets and subtlety do not go paw-in-paw. This information shall prove useful indeed when we return to poor Fret. Muahahahahaha!**

 **Who knows, Slimegut might even change his name to Scarnose! (and transform into a hamster or something), might also hold a grudge against certain types of vermin after this hehehe...**

 **Remnants: Thank you for the compliments. I put a lot of effort on the characters... sometimes to the detriment of er- nasty things like 'plot' and 'pacing'- who needs those, amiright?**

 **Original story hmmmm... well yes, but also no? I'm not entirely sure what I'd write about. Publishing novels can be challenging- there are a lot of things that I do 'wrong' (ie you wouldn't find in most published books) but also enjoy doing- like headhopping or er- spending an entire chapter (and indeed naming a chapter!) Banana Filling? I don't think I have what it takes to write original fiction on a professional level- even if yes most of my writings is 'original'. (That's not to dismiss your kind words mind, I'm flattered!)**

 **Hmmm... I will do some sifting/searching to check but I'm pretty sure the one with a bent tail- famous for a bent tail- is Rowland. Ie Constance's husband (who sadly passed... in a most gruesome fashion). He's also technically Greyclaw's dad. Like Marik his role is mostly post-mortem unless I do a prequel...**

 **And here lies the greatest irony. You may hug the little guy- and indeed, many would- but alas Fret does not like hugs XD**

 **AlexFalTalon: Snap could have, buuut the slap to the face isn't as hard as it being Bartok makes it. It puts Fret into his mood (and it gives this author joy to snatch away any elation you might have XD)**

 **I love that line 'you have 100 pounds of happiness' XD For the record I feel no harm in saying that they will be going to Butch's place.**

 **Yes and no. The pirates chapters will be scattered around the Northlands rebellion chapters.**

 **Abrahem: What makes the Fret/Veil parralel so interesting is that... well... ending up like Veil is a rational fear. Such behaviour is justified against the toads- but someone else? Then he'd be a villain! He'd be Veil! Fret frets a lot and this is just the latest thing for him to worry about. It upsets him greatly because it neatly summarizes all of his issues.**

 **Yeah, once again, not sure where to put Snap. He's not *that* bad but... he can be buggy XD**

 **Hmm... how far will Fret go... weeeeell I feel no harm in saying that the poll on my profile is er- 10/2 on Fret ends up nicer. What that means is up to you but... Fret doesn't have the stomach to flay somebeast alive. The reason the length of that timeskip was important is because short timeskip means Whimper is still mostly Fret, a longer timeskip... different character. So... different version...**

 **Yes alright! Well, one dark scene was a er- rather gruesome fate for the toads. It didn't exactly fit in but I could make it a horror drabble... The other was well... you'll see when it happens since it's rather important.**

 **Not sure to be honest XD There's Bonfire Night buuuut I've never lit a firework for it (although... Shakespeare was clearly Guy Fawkes and the whole thing was just a ploy to make Macbeth- released with suspicious timing a short time later... and instant hit!) XD Switzerland and the Balkan regions... er- not really. Not that I know of. I mostly stay at home and sit on my laptop anyways. I live under a rock as well. To some extent anyways.**

 **We have vampiric squash though, that's pretty fun.**

 **Kayaking! Never tried XD You had fun I assume? Or did you er- repeatedly fall in the water XD?**

 **What happened to Longtongue, eh? I have a few ideas... And we may even see what happened to him. Perhaps in story, perhaps in drabble. Depends.**

 **Also, yes Threeclaw the dibbun=voice of Jerry's nephew, I imagine him as kinda high-pitched anyways hehehe**

 **A monkey's fist is not a bad idea. Mariel of Redwall had something similar in Mariel of Redwall- I'm pretty sure it was a knotted rope but I haven't read that one so I'm not sure. I also think a monkey's fist fits him better than a ball and a chain... Frankly poor Fret doesn't have the physique to lift such a weapon.**

 **Waycaster: The story gets darker from here eh? Hmm... I do think the pirates arc will be slightly less whimsical if you will- so yes darker in a sense- but we haven't reached true darkness quite yet, at least for the other arcs and characters.**

 **Berserker: Oh yes, Fret's in a very complicated position when it comes to the whole specism debate... I shan't say more for there are spoilers inbound...**

 **Hmm (Quite the pen-name ye got there ;): Yes I can see what you mean about negative coincidence and the feeling of... contrrivedness? I think I can put some of that down to not knowing where I wanted to take the story. For example the whole extended prologue with the Skipper and otter trips feels perhaps a little unecessary at this point in the story, because it doesn't serve much of a purpose beyond introducing some of the characters.**

 **I think the negative coincidence thing hasn't exactly stopped mind- Fret just *has* to go down the snake tunnel and Bartok just happens to flap into *Fret* of all things, etc etc and I suppose I could use a bit more set up for things like that... Er- any ideas how?**

 **Sebias: Hmm... we may yet see some of the toads... Warthog was en-route to Longclaw's when the rest of the Yellowbellies were punished so you could call him a Karma Houdini... or you could say going to Longclaw's is a far worse fate hehehe**

 **Awww, so nice to hear that even in your old age you'll still remember poor old Fret... hopefully we'll know what happens to him by then, eh?**

 **Guest: The author is flattered. Thank you**

 **TactiturnWatcher:**

 **Abrahem (again): Yeah... a lot of crazy things happen in the forum, and member or not we will drag you into it (read, down with us) hehehehe, the link is always available if you do ever decide to join Discord (I don't want you to feel obligated to do so, do as you wish)**

 **Ah yes, I'm rather proud of Slimegut and Longtongue... froggies weren't as hard as I thought they'd be.**

 **Yeah beaver society will be mostly me- the only reason I say mostly is because there was one beaver in Redwall that went by 'the solitary beaver'. Jacques said they only appeared in Redwall and he didn't include them in other books because they were extinct in Britain at the time... fun fact, beavers are no longer extinct in Britain which means it's time to bring them back into Redwall... or at least my version of Redwall...**

 **Ah see, the joke was my readers would assume it was a family album. It's not. Thorneflame, Fret, Klis, Marik, Slit are technically a family- as in mostly related, mind you Klis and Thornflame aren't related to Slit-eye. Meanwhile Choptail and Scringewhiskers are thrown in because... it's a ferret photoshoot! Come one come all! Alas I had no space for Ripple Sharkbreath... or Swallowtail...**

 **I don't know the word for Thornflame' pirate outfit... er maybe a... *has no clue***

 **Yes, in hindsight Klis isn't very muscular, is he? Hmmm... I do like the drawing mind but I'll try and make some more of him- with more burliness. Although burliness in general is something I find hard to draw. Still, I can try!**

 ***Punches table* Hmmm... I mean I can still use the other song somewhere right? Long story left... (I find it hilarious in hindsight that Snakeskin was singing a rock song).**

 **And as a final note, Tactiturn is both very clever and** _ **male-**_ **the emphasis is because it took me about two weeks to find out XD**

 **Tactiturn Watcher: Damn... you don't kid around when you review, do you? I... like... how do I respond to all of this? There aren't any questions here and... wow... you've hit most things on the nose. I think my progress here is especially easy to see because of how long the fic is- I am nearly at the two year old mark- Fret is about to be a toddler- and therefore you can see a development in writing style- helps as well that when I started this is also when my writing went through a bit of an overhaul (when I started reworking older fics).**

 **I mean... I guess there is some Ho Yay here? I mean... it's not something I'm trying to do... but I guess my writing comes off that way?**

 **Finally, I decided you were right. The last chapter felt like an ending and both because of the tonal shift of the Pirates/Northlands arc (and this gap in updates) I've decided that Book III begins here and now. What this means? Er nothing much really. Book III is gonna be super long and I might even split it into two (so that would mean four books...) depending on how long certain things take me to write/develop, but I'm not cutting anything out. So... win win? If any of you have got any better ideas for a title I'd like to hear them.  
**

 **Corkindrill: I've already responded to you via PMs, but when you do get all caught up this is the standard form of response. Thanks for the insight/critique/reviews!**

 **I feel like I broke a rule here where the author's note is almost as long as the chapter... In other words short chapter this time around, mostly build-up, but plenty of interesting things to explore here in the Northlands... Without further ado...  
**

 ** _Book III: Blood And Secrets_**

"What were you thinking?" Groaned one Jon Connington. Deep in the bowels of Chillgrave, the filthy little mouse sat up against an empty barrel.

The one-eyed hare pacing before him harrumphed with a note of great displeasure. "Well you didn't leave me a bally choice. It was either ally with the vermin or rot in an underused pothole of a cellar listening to your bally drunken singing!"

The small rodent groaned again. He was not sure what was worse, the sharp emptiness of his stomach or the pair of bells ringing in his skull. It was probably the throbbing headache come to think of it. Or the stiffness of his joints, the soreness of his tail, the weakness of his paws... It was a miracle he was alive, or so the elderly marten had said.

 _"Yer friend is an idjit an' lucky te be alive."_

Connington had not liked being called an idiot, but he'd been too hungover to truly retort. By the time his mind had pieced together a suitable comeback Sick-Eyes had shoved a vile and foul-tasting potion down his throat. He'd been too busy coughing and spluttering to verbally duel, after that.

The alchohol had been sealed up, and now the only thing he drunk was whatever the vermin put into her 'medicine'.

"My singing... can't have been that... bally bad..." The mouse groaned a third time. All he did was groan, or rather, all he said came out as a groan. It was likely the medicine's fault.

"It was abominable." Said One-Eye Fleetfoot, as blunt as a hammer.

Connington coughed weakly and stopped trying to argue. He'd failed everybeast in every possible manner. He was not even strong enough to drink himself to death. _Pathetic... pathetic... pathetic..._

And with those dreary thoughts he slipped into an uneasy sleep.

The hare continued to pace in silence for some time before his companion's soft snoring interrupted his thoughts. Muttering foul words unsuitable for the ears of a cadet, the grizzled old Long Patrol Captain stomped over and with as much gentleness as his impatience could muster, dragged the rodent into a more comfortable position.

Pity made it's presence known to him, as it always did. The mouse had volunteered so many weeks ago, to help find the children. He'd been determined then, and made of strong stuff. Something had happened to him on the pirate ship. Connington had not been the same after that. He'd been weak, and not just from nearly drowning. Hiding in the wine cellars had been a necessity- it was the least-visited part of a castle- but it had allowed the mouse to drown himself over and over again in liquid courage.

And I was too weak to stop him... To be fair, Captain Fleetfoot had been under extreme stress. They were leagues away from home in the heart of enemy territory and unable to find a single one of the children. His only companion had suddenly lost all hope and any determination. The current situation was still stressful of course. The wolverine king was not a beast he'd like to face in battle, and no amount of kitchen slaves could hope to overthrow the garrison. It was getting harder and harder to deal with the newly-promoted vermin- most of whom were on the cautious side knowing what had befallen their predecessors, and with the newfound watchfulness of the castle at large it was more difficult than ever to get word and supplies to the 'dead' slaves working on the boats.

A ridiculously large galley had been selected as their method of escape. It was the only ship that could possibly fit them all, that was true, but it was old and in sore need of repairs. The sail had been replaced overnight a week before, and oars had been taken from the other ships. The last the slave rebellion had heard, a new rudder was being built.

In and of itself that was not hard to do, but the quantity they were dealing with made things difficult. When the rudder was ready and fitted, Sick-Eyes would lead the kitchen slaves and supplies onto the boats after sun down, it was up to One-Eye to get the mining slaves on board before morning. The pine marten was very clear on the fact that they would leave without him if they had to.

 _"The wolverine king'll want our heads. We ain't stickin' aroun' if yer late so make sure yer on board on time with anybeast ye wanna take with ye."_

Connington wheezed weakly, and turned in his sleep. Something had happened to him on the pirate ship... and One-Eye had his suspicions. The ferret was here after all, and was not a slave. Connington had probably encountered his 'beloved nephew', and seeing what he was had broken him.

According to Silvertongue, _"He's some pampered, prissy little princeling. Watched me paw get flayed an' everythin' the ungrateful runt! Ye know it's his fault too! Nobeast would've touched me if he didn't act all frightened."_

If all that was true, and the weasel's paw was proof alone, then the ferret was beyond hope.

The hare was not sure how he felt about that. He had had very few interactions with the kit, none of them particularly memorable or pleasant, so perhaps it had been inevitable. Many had said so... yet Connington had (in imitation of his elder sister most likely) stubbornly refused to listen. Even when they had found the molemaid.

Captain Fleetfoot shook his head free of the ferret. Whatever he was now made no difference. He was no longer in the castle, Silvertongue had informed him.

" _Left with all his pirate pals." The weasel snorted with contempt. "Funny, ain't it, how quickly he changes mates?"_

And therefore he was... for the time being at least... of no concern.

Shaking his head free of the vermin youth, the hare once more made sure Connington would not be going anywhere before making his way towards the heart of their little rebellion. The kitchens.

* * *

"Yer late hare!" Sick-Eyes growled at the sight of him. The elderly marten pointed a claw at a small group of miniature weasels. "Yew! Flitchaye! Get this beast inter costume sharpish! Flayface is gonna be late te work at this rate an' the las' thin' we need is a suspicious highness stompin' into our kitchens!"

Perhaps it was age that made her so snappy. Although being the ringleader of an undercover rebellion/escape mission was bound to make anybeast 'snappy', after all they were the ones that would suffer the most if it all went south.

Getting into costume was a familiar pain now. The fox tail was wound and tied firmly around his comparatively tiny one, his ears pulled and flattened against his back. The skull went on. The mask went on. The fancy tunic went on. The belt with the whip went on. And after only a few moments Flayface the Slavemaster was standing where One-Eye Fleetfoot had once been.

"I assume the mouse delayed you." Came the sullen voice of Deathglare. The pine marten looked healthier than ever before- but that was hardly saying much. Before he'd been a slave and the victim of horrendous torture. Neither of those were likely to look healthy. The swelling around his eye had vanished though, only to be replaced by long bags of darkened flesh.

 _"He gets nightmares of waking up in a barrel." Sickletail told him, matter-of-factedly. "Heard him muttering in his sleep an' everythin'. 'Not the paw pads! Anythin' but the paw pads.'" She snickered, leaving the hare uncertain on the truth of the matter. Deathglare himself had not said anything._

One-Eye shrugged. "I'm not that late."

"Humph, tell that to the King." The dark-furred vermin slunk towards him and continued in a lower voice so as not to be overheard by the other kitchen workers. "We have not received any news from the ships, but there is much talk amidst the slaves. There are threescore more vermin to worry about- all called in from some Northern tribe. One is said to be a seer, and believes the murders are the responsibility of some ghost or spirit."

"Doesn't sound too bad, wot. Nothing we can't manage." The hare pointed out. His optimism was false though, he knew from seasons of experience that the worst news was yet to come.

"Two others have already searched the slavepits." Deathglare whispered harshly. "They wanted to search the kitchens too..." The pine marten sighed. "They will want some words with you after what Sick-Eyes said..."

 _"An' if ye think ye can come bargin' into my superior's kitchens without me superior's say-so ye've got another thin' comin' don't ye? Flayface was right about ye he was, a pair a' up-jumped, flea-bottomed ole rags! I should take ye out an' beat ye agains' the windows he said! Now if ye'll excuse me I've got slaves te rally an' breakfas' te make!"_

The hare groaned. "Did she have to slam the door into their faces?"

"They were persistent little rags, I will give them that." Deathglare crossed his paws against his chest. "It's lucky we locked the doors, else they'd have found us in the middle of one of her cursed stories, nibbling on her cursed biscuits."

"I assume you did the good ole locking?"

"And I made sure I have the only key." A hint of a smile came and went, replaced with the sullen seriousness of one who knew their life was very much at risk.

Silence descended upon the two, but the kitchens were never a silent place. The slaves still had a castle to feed, and so chopped and rolled and stirred the vittles with the usual speed and dexterity of one under a whip. Sick-Eyes barked out all kinds of orders over the low chattering.

Briefly One-Eye considered broaching the topic of Fret, but decided against it. The marten was unlikely to give him any new information. It was abundantly clear the ferret was not in the castle. There was nothing to discuss. Except perhaps...

"Is the mouse getting better?" Deathglare asked, with a tone of general disinterest.

"He sings less and takes his medicine." The hare replied, non-comitally. "His health should improve yes. Although..." He hesitated, and made sure Silvertongue was nowhere in ear-shot. "It might be best not to mention any of the business with his nephew."

The pine marten raised an eyebrow. "The ferret?"

"Yes." The hare scratched the back of his head awkwardly. "At least... not until he's out of this place and better. I fear he would-"

"Do something stupid. I can't imagine why." Deathglare nodded briskly. "I will tell the others. The last thing we need now is that drunk up to mischief.

"I'm glad you agree, wot wot." One-Eye cleared his throat. "Anyways... I suppose I have some slavemastering to do."

"That too, we can agree on."

* * *

"The nerve o' those beasties!" Growled a pale white ermine. "Flea-bottomed rag! Pah! I'll turn _her_ into one! See how much she talks then!"

 _Hopefully less than you..._ Spitteeth, Longclaw's personal bodyguard and a fox whose fur rivaled the ermine's in palour, was not pleased by the constant need of new beasts. Clogg had taken the better ones south, leaving the castle practically defenseless. The slaves had grown so bold and the murders so bad that the wolverine king had had to resort to calling in external support.

The beasts standing before Spitteeth now had come with threescore vermin behind their backs to bolster the diminished garrison. They were not as loyal as the mute rats, but made up for that in ferocity and initiative. The self-appointed leaders had already searched the slavepits, determined to avoid the grim fates of their predecessors and squash out any potential uprisings. As he was now endlessly being reminded, they had also wanted to search the kitchens.

"Who does he even thin' he is!" The ermine continued ranting. She was tall and lithe, with a fierceness as sharp as her teeth.

"Who?" Croaked an old grey rat. Rumor had it they were a seer. Spitteeth knew not whether it was true, but the elder vermin was as superstitious as they came.

"Flayface." Spat the ermine, as if the very word was intolerable.

The rat furrowed their brow. "I sense no Flayface here..."

"Coz he ain't here." The new Captain of the Gate, an overweight weasel, butted in. "We don' like te talk about beasts where they can see us, do we?"

Spitteeth remained silent. The fox had one paw on the hilt of his sword, as he always did, if ever the need arose he could have it drawn and sticking through somebeast in half a heartbeat. He was not sure what to make of the beasts before him. Seers were often frauds and never rats. The weasel had an air of arrogance around him as strong and foul as an odour. The ermine's idea of leadership was being loud and bossy and talking too much.

On second thought... were he not under orders Spitteeth knew exactly what he'd make of them.

Mincemeat.

But Longclaw had ordered him to watch them, and it was unwise (and often fatal) to act without a king's consent.

"Ye know... speakin' o' Flayface actually." The weasel turned about to make sure they were not being watched. "I have half a min' te stick him somethin' sharp and shove him off a cliff."

"You have no sense of caution Zabal." The rat warned in a low voice. "And lower your voice Chorba, my ears are old and-"

"Yer too cautious Far-Eyes!" Chorba, the ermine snapped. "Mark me word ye'll be the firs' te go."

"Are you threatening me?" Far-Eyes growled dangerously, her thin old hairs rising dangerously.

"Warnin'." Zabal interjected. "She's jus' warnin' ye. While we're here I suggest ye keep yer eyes close by- ye'll need 'em."

"I have no intention of parting with my eyes." The rat retorted. Turning on the spot she now chose to address Spitteeth. "I will require certain herbs, a cauldron and some means of lighting a fire. I must search for spirits... this is an old place and more than ghosts roam these halls at night. Never has a place been so touched by death. The walls reek of it, the wind whispers it-"

Spitteeth chose to tune her out at this point. Any idiot could tell him Chillgrave was touched with death. After some time she finished, and with a curt nod towards the other two, left. Spitteeth followed half-heartedly, his paw still on the handle of his blade.

Zabal turned towards the ermine as soon as they were out of earshot. "I will want words with this Flayface first... but it never hurt to plan ahead..."


	66. Blendfur

**A/N: Lord Demon: A doodle of Savage, hmm? Yeah I think that's doable. Not *entirely* sure what else you're asking for. Fret getting squashed, yes? Or is it Fret being a vegetable? Ah thanks for the info on Godzilla.  
**

 **Waycaster: Hmmm... I shall leave Far-Eye's is er- 'magic' up in the air for now. Which means I can't really answer the next question... Will she find any spirits indeed...**

 **Keldor: I imagine the Flitchaye will kind of serve as background for the time being. No long term plans or anything here... but I do like their accents!**

 **Abrahem: Yes I think drawing Klis on his own might make it all easier...**

 **Well lookee here a nice brief author's note! Still getting back into the writing mood if you will, but this chapter is more sizeable than the last one if you will.**

"Plan ahead?" Chorba had known Zabal for many seasons now. The two rarely thought of the other amicably, but they worked well together. She cocked her head to the side, her voice lowering considerably. "This ain't anything about 'stickin' Flayface where it hurts' now is it?"

"That, me dear ole matey, is exactly what this is about." The fat weasel turned round. "I would prefer we spoke private-like. I ain' a big fan of all the smilin' beasts around us."

"I know a place." The ermine brushed past him with soft, almost silent pawsteps. "Follow me an' try an' be quiet about it."

To his credit, Zabal tried, but to an expert like Chorba his own pawsteps were as loud and as obvious as a thunderbolt. Down one corridor the two crept, before going through another. A left turn. A right turn. And through a doorway.

Little did either of them know they were being followed.

Zabal found himself in a small, dimly lit room. There were windows, and the door refused to close, but it would do. The fat weasel drew up a chair from a particularly dark corner and Chorba did likewise.

"So..." The ermine's eyes flickered to the doorway, before turning her full attention to her fellow tribesbeast. "About this Flayface then... what would we gain fur stickin' him?"

Zabal smiled. He'd been expecting the question, and as such, had a response ready. "Everythin'! One a' us'd be the new slavemaster fer starters, an' we'd be doin' ourselves a favour in the lon' run. When I was questionin' the slaves earlier this mornin'." He grinned cruelly at the memory. "Nobeas' seemed te know nothin' about no murders. 'Twas some other slave they said. They was not involved they said. An' they was tellin' the truth! Flayface is behin' all the killin's!" His grin faltered at the sight of Chorba's apparent unimpression.

"That be obvious, he comes in new slavemaster, starts killin' everybeas' else so he can have more power an' more control." She said after an awkward pause. "Anybeas' could tell ye that an' I'm pretty sure everybeast knows it." The ermine smirked and crossed her paws over her chest. "So, what do we do abouts it? The foxbeas' was sayin' Flayface be one a' the King's oldes' mateys."

There was another pause, wherein Zabal scratched at his neck in search of an answer. "Methinks that won' make a difference. Longclaw'll see we're doin' a better job an' Flayface was betrayin' him anyways so no harm done, eh?"

"Yer gonna hafta prove it te him, an' that ain' gonna be easy. Longclaw migh' decide yer the beas' betrayin' him. Methink he'd like settin' an example fur everybeas' an' kill ye all gory-like. Hang yer skull on the wall an' everythin'."

Zabal swallowed audibly and had to physically shake away the icy grip of fear threatening to hold him still forever. "Ye got any ideas yerself then?"

"I do matey." Chorba grinned widely and leaned in to whisper into the fat weasel's ear.

"Get a slave te do it?" Zabal repeated, at full volume.

Chorba growled and once more glanced suspiciously at the empty doorway. Nobeast had heard, but still she smacked the weasel's ear. "Hush ye idjit! Why'd ye thin' I leaned in te tell ye the plan!? What if somebeas' had heard!"

"Keep yer fur on." Zabal snapped, rubbing said ear. His own eyes darted from doorway to the ermine before him. "Usin' a slave ain' a bad idea... but how're ye gonna do that?"

"I'll order 'em do it, an' promise they'll be free an' get extra vittles an' the like. An' then I'll kill 'em as soon as the deed's good an' done." The ermine's sharp fangs gleamed with all the cold of an avalanche. "Ye'll fin' I can be very persuasive."

Zabal cackled with glee and smacked his paws together. "Soun's like a plan then! Whatcha thin' about goin' an' sayin' hello to the soon-to-be deadbeast?"

"Soun's like a plan." The two stood up, and not bothering to replace the chairs, left.

* * *

Blendfur breathed a small sigh of relief as soon as the fat weasel's footsteps were out of earshot. He had not been caught, and neither seemed to have suspected his presence, but sneaking in behind them and remaining still and silent- protected only by the darkness of his hiding place- was nerve-wracking. A small, thin beast of unusual coloring lingered in the dark of the corner for a while longer to make sure they were truly gone, before emerging.

His fur was dappled grey and brown, with small flecks of red here and there. He might been a stoat or a weasel, and the dark patches of fur around his eyes made 'ferret' an option too. His tunic was plain, the same colour and pattern as the walls of Chillgrave. It made sneaking around much easier, and as a spy he did lots of sneaking around. "Sometimes I even hide inside the skulls." He mused, stretching his tail free of the sores and cramps that came with crouching into the smallest amount of space possible. Blendfur clicked his spine with a sigh of contentment.

The weasel, Zabal, was an oaf who fancied himself cunning. The ermine was made of stronger stuff. She was smarter, and had the sense to glance at the doorway. But Blendfur had spied on shrewder. "Master will want to know." He reminded himself, in a voice as small as a child's. Peering through the doorway he found the corridor outside empty. Just as he liked it. With pawsteps and footfalls so silent they put tip-pawing to shame, Blendfur scurried through the cold halls of the castle.

* * *

Longclaw was not hard to find. When the king was not seated on the Throne of Chillgrave he was either dozing in his chambers or watching the slaves and slavemasters toiling in the quarry. Tunnels ran throughout the whole castle, and one of Longclaw's first acts as king had been to expand them. The previous owners of the castle had not been wolverines and as such there were plenty of cracks and crevices only smaller creatures could squeeze through and watch from.

"Yer Majesty." Came the voice of Blendfur.

Longclaw was startled. He did not jump up and he did not growl, but Blendfur had learned to read the subtle clues creatures gave out before he had learned to read. The wolverine's fur bristled and his tail stopped twitching abruptly. "Blendfur."

The smaller creature crept out of the shadows. Pride did not go well on spies, but he was one of the few beasts who could sneak past the King of Ice and Snow's frosty glare. Longclaw had expected him of course, this was a scheduled meeting. But-

"I thought you'd turn up later." His signature glare turned to a frown. "Well, what do you think? Can I trust these... reinforcements?"

Blendfur waited a while before answering. "I'm not sure about the seer, but Spitteeth seems loyal as ye already know of course. I have doubts about the other two though. The weasel thinks Flayface is behind the murders."

Longclaw raised an eyebrow. It was not a possibility he'd considered... But what did Flayface gain from slaying guardsbeasts and fellow captains? "And?"

"The ermine and he have conspired to... deal with him."

The wolverine's gaze hardened once more. It took all the discipline of a spy to not step away from the larger beast. Blendfur did not need to look at his paws to know that the King's famed claws were coming out. "Have they ever met him?"

"Not to my knowledge." Blendfur replied, his eyes fixed on Longclaw's feetpaws. "The ermine wanted to use a slave to do it. And then kill 'em afterwards so ye wouldn't find out."

The wolverine made a 'humph' kind of noise. "Do they truly think me so blind? That I would not notice the murder of one of my Captains taking place right under my nose?"

Blendfur decided mentioning that several captains had already needed replacing was a health and safety hazard.

"They plot to kill Flayface, within hours of setting footpaw within my halls. How long do you think it will be before they come for me?" Longclaw took a deep breath, and to the spy's immense (but well-hidden) relief, his claws slid back out of sight. "Still... it would not be good to antagonize them just yet. I have heard tell that Far-Eyes is indeed a gifted beast and we do not know where the loyalties of their threescore tribesbeasts lie, or how easy they will be to convert to my side. They may even be right about Flayface..."

"The murders did only start when he was promoted." Blendfur had spoken the words to himself countless times over. "But ye shouldn't discount the possibility that the slaves are responsible. The murders are probably in- in" He coughed awkwardly, trying to remember the next words. They came to him quickly. "Retaliation to the fact that his first act as slavemaster was to cook somebeast into stew."

Longclaw nodded. "Indeed. Neither can be discounted at this point... It is also possible that Flayface is using the slaves to murder the captains. If Chorba of all beasts can think of a plot like that... I am sure he could too." The wolverine king shrugged his massive shoulders. "In any case we should not act yet. Warn Flayface of these newcomers and the threat they pose towards him, but make sure he knows not your intent nor who you work for. It would also be wise to watch him from now on. If he is indeed responsible for these killings then he has overstepped his boundaries and outlived his usefulness."

Blendfur nodded.

"I have my doubts though. When I passed him by and made that foolish, brown-eyed stoat Slavemaster, Flayface made no attempt on my life, nor on the stoat's. And rest assured he could have split Brown-Eye in half a heartbeat had he the mind to do it. I wouldn't even have punished him for that. He knew it. I knew it. Yet the opportunity came and went and he did nothing. Why risk my wrath now? He has grown no younger and no fitter."

"Your wisdom never ceases to amaze me." The spy bowed before the King. It was always wise to bow in front of a King. "I shall do as you bid, and warn Flayface of Zabal and Chorba's plottings."

"And keep an eye on him." Longclaw added, with a dismissive wave of his paw.

Blendfur slunk back into the shadows of the tunnels, and left without another sound.

Longclaw was not a fan of the little spy, but he did his job well. Spies were rarely a threat anyways, and his many dealings with the Manywhispers had only strengthened his power of secrecy.

Slavemasters though... His gaze turned back to the secret window. Through it he could see Flayface in all his masked glory. They were nearly always a problem...

* * *

The kitchens were filled with the sound of chopping. A cacophony of blades hitting boards. The voice of an elderly marten, so shriveled up and wrinkled they resembled a piece of crumpled paper, cut through the din to bark out orders. "Roll the dough flatter, rudderbutt, afore I flatten yer hide!"

The addressed otter, a young beast with less fingers than he should've had, smiled.

Immediately Blendfur could tell something was amiss. The smile was the first clue, but there were many others.

A small group of particularly small weasels were snickering and poking one another with butter knives. From the way they behaved he knew them to be Flitchaye- members of rather primitive weasel tribes famous for their knock-out smoke and barkcloth camouflage. It was not so much the knife-playing that threw him off, but the playfulness of it... the giggling did not belong among forced labour.

A doddery old mouse who's large ears drooped like laundry on a washing line was snoozing in a corner. Somebeast had even tucked in the blankets! While older slaves were sometimes treated less harshly (depending on the slavemaster) to allow one to sleep in broad daylight was the kind of babying no sensible vermin would allow!

Blendfur watched one of the Flitchaye hurl their knife at another. The weasel ducked in time and the blunted blade soared through the air and into an innocent stack of dishes which promptly shattered into little pieces. A female weasel had been piling them up. Besides her another weasel, small compared to anybeast but the Flitchaye, turned and snarled.

"OI! That's me wife yer aimin' at! Throw another knife an' I'll toss ye and yer little pack of savages into the puddin'!" He waved a thickly-bandaged paw in their direction. Another clue that something was amiss- no slavemaster as sadistic as Flayface would treat a wounded slave.

The pack of weasels snarled back. "It norra Flitchaye fault d'potterclay smashacrash!"

"Pokieknife slipaslip!"

"It norra Flitchaye fault!"

"Blame d'pokieknife!"

The shorter weasel made to stomp over, but was grabbed by what Blendfur assumed to be his wife. "It doesn't matter." She said flatly.

"Doesn't matter? The idjit's could've hit ye! They'll be sorry when I'm done with 'em!"

"Worraworra!" Cried one of the savage little weasels. This cry was soon picked up by the other ones. "Worraworra! Worrraworra! Killyer d' bigbeast!"

"I said it doesn't matter." The female weasel hissed, the grip on her mate's shoulder tightening. "Now get back to work afore I pummel ye."

The male weasel flared up with rage, before abruptly deflating. Without another word he turned his back on the Flitchaye, who continued their little chant of 'worraworra'.

And the pine marten, who seemed to be in charge from the way she was shouting... had done nothing. His suspicions growing by the minute, Blendfur slunk closer towards the pair of weasels, who now seemed deep in conversation.

"But it does matter!" The male one was insisting. "An' we ought te tell the others about it 'coz I don't-"

"I told ye already!" The female one hissed, wiping the remains of the dishes into a small bin. "We ain't tellin' the others because it ain't important an' they've all got enough te deal with without ye bringin' up pointless arguments."

"Pointless? Pointless! This is anythin' but pointless!" Either Blendfur was missing some key information or the male weasel had a big ego. Both were equally likely at this point. Yet before either weasel could say another word there was a cry of pain and the clatter of a falling pan.

A hedgehog was now sucking a sore paw, at their feetpaws lay an upturned pastry.

"Now look what ye've done! Ye've gone an' dropped the pie!" The elderly pine marten 'tsked' loudly and stomped over towards the slave. "Shame on yer hedgepig! What did I tell ye about wearin' the oven glove, eh?" Instead of causing further pain towards the helpless slave, as was the common practice amongst slavemasters everywhere, the elderly marten took their paw in hers and gently massaged it. "Dip it in some cold water an' ye'll be fine. OI! Somebeas' clean up this mess!"

A shrew scurried over and gingerly flipped the pie back over. This slave had the audacity to dip a finger into the stuffing and plop it into their mouth! The usual punishment for such a deed was to starve the insolent slave. Somebeast like Flayface would have thrown in a few lashes too and a good kick was never amiss. The marten playfully tugged the base of their tail, almost tripping the shrew in the process.

"Best be careful greedyguts, elsewise the next pie might have bits of shrew in it. I'm rather partial te yer kind."

"Ye'll find I don't cook well." Blendfur's jaw went slack at the audacity of the slave. "I burn easily an' have this horrible habit of chewin' off me own crust. Now if ye'll excuse me, I've got a pie to devour!"

The marten chuckled as the slave mock-stomped away. She turned and her old eyes found his own watchful ones. There was a moment of pause. The air seemed to chill, their surroundings blurred over and in the stillness nothing seemed to exist or make a sound besides the pair of them.

Then just as suddenly as it had come, the moment was over. Blendfur's eyes darted to the open doorway, the only way in and out of the kitchens. The marten seemed to know what he was thinking. Or maybe it was a very accurate guess. In any case she pointed a claw at him. "Lock the door an' catch that beast! We've got an intruder!"

Before anybeast could properly register the order, Blendfur was off. Like a cork from a bottle he shot over a tabletop and sprinted as fast as his paws could carry him. The slaves however, seemed quick on the uptake. A well-built mole and the lack-fingered otter came charging at him too fast to stop. But Blendfur had been pursued by swifter, and did not need to glance backwards to know that the thump! he heard was the pair of them running into each other.

A dark furred marten dived for his feetpaws. Blendfur hopped over the beast in the nick of time- some of the slaves pursuing him were less lucky and came tripped onto the floor. The vermin spy hit the ground running. A knife flew past his ears and buried itself into a tabletop before him.

"The door! The door!" The old marten was screeching.

Blendfur felt his pace quicken, but it was too late. The weasel pair he'd been observing before slammed the door shut.

"Haha! Gotcha!" Cried the shorter one as the taller of the two came rushing forwards.

Blendfur sidestepped the thrust of her kitchen knife but was dealt a heavy blow on the muzzle. Sickletail swung again, but this time the spy was prepared and managed to duck under it. She stabbed forwards forcing Blendfur backwards. He soon found himself pressed against a tabletop. Diving to the side he dodged another slash of the knife and then he was off again.

Hopping onto the tabletop, he darted out of reach. Sickletail's knife narrowly missed. The door was not an option. He would not be able to get past the weasel guarding it. Blendfur did not know of any tunnels leading into the kitchens. Presumably whoever had built Chillgrave saw no reason to put them there. Although he had heard a rumour that Longclaw had sealed all the tunnels off as soon as Prince Bork was old enough to crawl.

"Flitchayeeeeee! Flitchayeeeeeee!" The Flitchaye pounced as one and became a snarling pile of fists and feetpaws. Unbeknownst to them they had completely missed their target.

The spy abruptly changed directions to avoid a hare with a frying pan (said hare went on to accidentally strike down an unfortunate rat with said frying pan).

"Most sincerest apologies honored Slinktail, wot. It was not at all my intention to dent this lovely little pan with your bally face."

Blendfur was of the opinion that the apology above sounded, somehow, unapologetic. Perhaps he could turn all the slaves against each other at this rate. Such a strategy however was a gamble and not one he'd like to bet his life against.

Then he saw it! A small window amidst a stack of barrels. He veered suddenly in it's direction, rushing helter skelter past a pair of shrews. A third knife grazed his shoulder and a fourth neatly removed some fur from between his ears. Whoever was throwing them (and he was sure it wasn't the Flitchaye) was a good shot. But he'd almost made it. The window was within reach!

Before he could jump out of it however he was tackled to the side by a burly mole.

"Oi's gort 'im marm!" Cried the kitchen slave maintaining a firm grip on the spy's tunic.

Whoever the mole was, they seemed to underestimate just how much Blendfur wanted to stay alive. Slipping free of the cloth the vermin sprung onto a smaller barrel and shot out the window without a sound. The mole was left dumbstruck, the cloth still in his claws.

"You fool! You let him get away!" Deathglare rushed past so quickly he himself nearly left the kitchens. The marten's head glared down at the sea below.

"Stupid moles." Silvertongue spat, hopping onto the barrel himself to better see what was going on. Standing on tip-paw he poked his head out and glanced briefly at the sharp rocks snarling up at them from around manes of frosted waves.

Both weasel and marten were dumbstruck.

"I think the mole may have killed him actually."

"Killed, eh? Wot wot."

"Lemme see!"

"Is it really dead?"

"Yerrherraherrherr! Go flapperfly outta d'wallhole! Watchybeast go splatsplat!"

"Yerrherr! Mushacrush a bigbit!"

The slaves clamored over, many wanted to see it for themselves. Head after head popped out to take a glance at the waters below. Deathglare and Silvertongue were soon smothered by the pushing, shoving bodies of overly-curious creatures.

"There's nothing to see here!" The pine marten wheezed, now sandwiched between a pair of Flitchaye. Silvertongue said something too, but the words were more muffled and harder to hear.

"Alright everybeast! Back te work!" Came the voice of Sick-Eyes. "Well done, yer intruder has been dealt with. Now clean up the mess ye all made catchin' him!"

One by one the slaves crowded out the window and back to their work stations, leaving a disgruntled Silvertongue to stare at the sea below. "That was too close fer comfort." He muttered, before heading back towards his wife.

* * *

Blendfur's arms were beginning to strain. The howling winds would probably have torn him clear off the cliff-side if they were any stronger. The stone he clung to now was old and damp, and his grip weak. It took all his strength of will not to look down, for he knew that would be the death of him. It was not the first time he'd used the window to access the kitchens, but he had never had cause to leave with such... haste. He'd had far too many brushes with death to count, but somehow they never seemed to get more bearable.

Longclaw would want to know of course, and Blendfur would have to do a lot of thinking and rehearsing to figure out what exactly he was supposed to say... His Master would want all the details.

Slowly but surely the small form of a mustelid edged along the cliffside.


	67. Bearing A Message

**A/N: Lord Demon: I... guess I can do that. Shouldn't be too hard to draw although my knowledge on feet is rather lacking. And it might not be for a while because I am rather behind on art (and other things) as is. But I'll try. Hmmm... I feel the Redwallers might not notice- too busy living on the mountain y'know... I mean they _are_ mice.**

 **Sebias: I feel I should credit both the Flitchaye and their accents to Keldor. As for Far-Eyes hmmm... all shall be revealed (when I figure out what I'm doing muahahahahaha)**

 **AlexFalTalon: Personally I rather like Blendfur :P He's fun to write in the enigmatic spy sort of way. Plus he's an excellent POV character because his whole shtick is that he observes people and things. (the Flayface joke was amazing XD) Although i would like to point out that Flayface earned that name from being Faceless rather than flaying other people's faces.**

 **Abrahem: Don't worry about the reviews. Really it's fine. You're not _obligated_ to review an hour after I publish. In the same way I'm not obligated to update on a schedule. (This is me, apologizing for the rather sporadic updates). Oooh! A Blendfur drawing? This is definetly something I'm gonna work on! Yeah, I think think the Flitchaye are great, but I think I'm better off not giving them tooooooooooooooooooo many lines of dialogue. Beasts like them run the fine line between quirky and obnoxious XD As for death... Fret's still alive, isn't he? :P**

 **Thanks to everyone for the reviews and the reading and the favs/follows and whatever. Now without further ado...**

The vermin watched him from the wall-tops. Tiny specks of brown and white and grey. The distant furbodies so greatly resembled ants that the toad felt his tummy rumble. Soon, he thought. Soon we shall all be feasting.

Warthog was small as far as toads went, yet still larger than the average mouse. He had traveled swiftly through the tunnels, avoiding danger at every step. Guided by the hunger in his stomach and the promise of beetlejuice he had crossed tunnels and pits and valleys of snow so deep a smaller creature might have drowned in it. Warthog was lucky enough to know how to swim.

He was named for the innumerable little warts all over his form and the general sluggishness of his appearance (it was commonly thought among toads and frogs alike that a hog was a rare kind of snail), and now armed with the small black and white hairs of their captive ferret, the amphibian stomped towards the high walls of dark stone.

"I bear a message!" He called up to the ants above. "A message for your King!"

Standing on the chilly walls high above, a pair of rats were frowning down at him from where they stood at their posts. From so high above the creature below could've been anything from a worm to a bear. Granted, it would have to be a very big worm to even be visible from afar.

One guardsbeast leaned towards the other and whispered.

"Did ye hear what he said?"

The other leaned back and covered the side of his muzzle with a paw. "Nah mate. Wind go' in the way diddenit?"

The toad below stomped the ground impatiently. He had not expected a warm welcome. The Lands of Ice and Snow were rarely warm, and the King of said lands had to be colder. But to be ignored at the gates after days of traveling? It was more irritating than chilling and set the amphibious blood within him boiling. Were it not for this rage he would probably have frozen to death on the spot. It might have been spring-time but the weather was always cold. He lacked fur and was dressed in nothing more than a loincloth. Wrapping his arms about him, the toad began to shiver violently. "I said open these gates! I bear a message for your King!"

Between the whistling of the ever present wind and the height of the walls, the two rats still could not make out a word the toad was saying.

"Ye think we ought te tell somebeast?"

"Migh' be impor'ant."

"Aye, we'd better tell somebeast impor'ant."

The toad below was growing impatient. The ants had left the walltops, presumably to open the gate. It had better be to open the gate. Or else Warthog would make sure they suffered... somehow.

A few minutes later the toad lost all patience and threw himself against the gate. His fists slammed into the cold iron with the fury of a badger in bloodwrath and the mad strength of a fly. "Let me in! Let me in you foul furbodies!"

A particularly vicious kick, delivered to the base of the door, set him hopping on one webbed foot. The snow was not exactly melting, but the warmer temperatures made it slicker than usual. Within moments the toad had slipped and fallen on his rump. He howled in pain and his cries punched through the chilly air, penetrating everything in it's path.

It was then that the gates swung open.

"State yer business frog!" Demanded a weasel with a stomach to rival Slimegut's. He was unarmed, unarmoured and wrapped in a thick cloak. The beast besides him seemed ready to kill at a moment's notice; there was a coldness in her eyes Warthog only ever saw in corpses.

Still the toad was nothing if not smug. After all, he, Warthog the Mighty, had been selected to act as the envoy of his tribe. Surely Slimegut had chosen him for a reason? His skill in battle, his courage, his craftiness, his intellect, his ability to solve problems easily, and of course- his powers of intimidation and complex manipulation. "And who are you?" The toad sneered. "Don't yew furbodies know how to treat an envoy?"

The weasel's fur bristled with barely-suppressed rage. The ermine besides him gave a little snicker. "Yer talkin' te Zabal, newly promoted Captain of the Guard, an' I be Chorba. Now state yer business quick-like an' scram."

Pulling himself out of the snow Warthog spoke in a thunderous voice- the kind one did to impress dibbuns. "I bear a message for the Warlord Mad-Eye Marik, or else the King of Ice and Snow himself, Longclaw! 'Tis for their ears alone I will speak." He patted a small pouch hanging from his belt. "There is something I must show them as well, they will want to see it."

The weasel looked to the ermine, who seemed even more amused. "Ye really wan' te talk te the king? Don't ye have any idea what Longclaw does te false envoys? Firs' off ye haven't got a letter, ye haven't got proper winterwear either so whoever sent ye's as dumb as ye are an' Mad-Eye Marik's been dead fur about ten seasons."

He should've known some unimportant vermin lackey would cause problems for this important mission. Who did this furbody think she was anyways? "Then take me before the King. I bear an important message that he will want to hear, from none other than Chief Slimegut of the Yellowbellies!" He spoke with such vigor and fervour that, were it a thunderstorm, lightning would have flashed behind him.

If the Lands of Ice and Snow had enough grass to house grasshoppers, crickets would have chirped at the silence. As it was the icy air was still for five full minutes, before laughter shattered it.

Chorba was rolling on the snow and clutching her stomach. She shook and rolled and cackled from the deepest part of her lungs. Zabal was making a conscious effort to stay upright but shook with such severity that it seemed like he was constantly on the verge of collapse. Warthog's green face reddened and the toad balled his webbed fingers into fists.

"Chief whoohoohoohoo o-o-of the whahahahahat?" The weasel asked between his snickers.

"SLIMEGUT OF THE YELLOWBELLIES!" Hollered the infuriated messenger.

"Told ye it was impor'ant." Came the thin, wispy voice of a rat.

"Too impor'ant fer us." Came the other, equally small voice.

Besides the pair of rodents stood a creature so utterly terrifying that, were Warthog not blessed with courage (or, alternatively, were he blessed with common sense) the toad would have hopped back to the valleys of snow and the tunnels beneath. The fox was masked, but walked stiffly, as if always in extreme pain. It's tail dragged along the snow besides him, lifeless and rotten-smelling. Any good healer would have amputated it. Flayface seemed at once half-dead and half-alive.

"Yes, ye did well te call me here, wot." The pair of rats frowned up at the taller beast.

"Wot wot sir?" One ventured to ask.

"Wooot're ye still doin' out of yer posts!" The fox cracked his whip with newfound fury. "Back te yer stations, the pair of ye afore I decide ye ought te be chucked inter the sea!"

The rats scampered away as fast as a pair of flying arrows.

Warthog would have admired the command this furbody held over his minions had he not seen Slimegut do the same on multiple occasions. As it was he was simply annoyed that another vermin was here- he had a message fit for a King and nothing else!

Still, at least the other two vermin had stopped laughing.

"So yer the one causin' all the ruckus, are ye?" The fox demanded of the toad he now towered above. "State yer business rapidly or suffer the wrath of me whip!"

Warthog was getting tired of repeating the same sentence over and over again. Were vermin truly so thick-skulled and weak-eared? "I, Warthog, Envoy of the Great Yellowbelly Tribe, bear a message for-"

"Well, well, well if it ain't _Dungface!"_ Ignoring Warthog completely now, the ermine turned towards the slavemaster. "I've been meanin' te have words with ye fox."

"Take as many as ye like." The slaver retorted, his good eye narrowing.

"Allow us te introduce ourselves first." The weasel too turned his back on Warthog. "I'm Zabal and this is Chorba. Longclaw called us over te deal with some problems he's been havin'. Rebellious slaves an' the like."

"I bear an important message!" Warthog called loudly. None of them seemed to hear him.

"Pleasure te meet ye then, my fine foul-odoured friend." Was Flayface's cool reply. "I take it the pair of ye are the soggy-bottomed idjits who tried te tamper with breakfast this mornin'?"

"Soggy-bottomed what now?" Chorba demanded, her sharp teeth bared.

"Idjits."

"I bear a mess-"

"We weren't tamperin' with nothin'." Zabal hissed. "We were simply makin' sure everythin' was goin' smooth-like."

"Before I was present? A likely story. I'm sure Longclaw will believe it." Flayface cracked his whip over the weasel's head to quell any further talk on the matter. "Nobeast enters the kitchen without me express written consent! An' if I find out ye were snoopin' around again I'll report the pair of ye."

"Is that a threat?" Chorba asked, her paws resting on the hilts of a pair of daggers.

"Are ye plannin' on snoopin' around again?"

"Only if I think yer up to somethin'!" The ermine shot back. By now Warthog had given up trying to bring the attention back to himself.

Flayface harrumphed. "Accusing me, eh? Keep up yer good work an' ye'll wind up a skull on this here fortress. Now, onto important matters. Toad follow me, I'll take ye te the King."

"Finally!" Warthog exclaimed, shoving past Chorba and the fat weasel. "A furbody what knows how to do their job correctly!"

Zabal gritted his teeth, clenched his paws into fists and glared at the fox's retreating back. Chorba punched him.

"What was that fer?" He hissed, rubbing a bruised shoulder.

"Needed te hit somethin'." She replied dismissively. The ermine signaled for the gates to be shut before motioning for Zabal to follow. "Let's see wot the King has te say about this."

* * *

"A message?" Longclaw's claws were on full display now, each the size of a small sword. Idly he waved away a strange, small, dripping wet creature who had been whispering in his hear moments before. The filthy furbody, whatever it was, gave the group a wary look before scurrying from the halls.

The castle temperature had failed to impress Warthog, the skulls had sent nary a shiver down his spine, the pained footsteps of his guide and the muttering of the vermin behind them had failed to instill in him a sense of dread. The King was yet another disappointment. There were many beasts that happily lived their lives never having seen something larger than a hare. Badgers were rare creatures and wolverines rarer still. To the average beast being in the presence of such an animal would have incited awe, horror and a sense of wonder. As it was wolverines looked quite small next to a bear.

The King sat up straight, clearly lacking the confidence of one who could lounge about on a throne. He was not paying attention to an envoy of another, more powerful creature. His claws, while indeed long, seemed to lack purpose. Longclaw was more like a thug than a true King. A thuggish child playing a game reserved for the wise. Slimegut could've made short work of him.

"A message." Warthog repeated, chest puffed out and inflated. He glanced over the vermin in the hall. The two idiots he'd met at the gate were there,having followed him and his escorter; the masked fox that went by Flayface. A bored-looking old rat entered from a side-door, and stood scowling next to a pale white fox armed with a sword the colour of snowflakes. "From Slimegut, Chief of the Great Yellowbelly Tribe, who sends you his regards."

The wolverine snorted. "I wasn't aware a Great Yellowbelly Tribe even existed." He waved a massive paw. "Please, do tell what this Slimegut has to say."

Warthog smiled. Oh how he'd waited for this moment... "He demands ransom!"

"Ransom?" Longclaw repeated, suddenly puzzled.

"We have your warlord's heir!" The toad said wickedly, relishing the way everybeast present seemed to glance at the King with worry. "Fufret! The son of Mad-Eye Marik! I have his fur here in this pouch." Plucking said pouch off his belt, Warthog hurled it at the wolverine's feet. There it burst open and scattered small furs of black and white all over the floor.

"Warlord's hair more like." Muttered Flayface. Longclaw snorted again, to Warthog's delight. He was no doubt at a loss for words or coherent language.

"Hair indeed! We will treat the boy well, but you must understand that if there is any delay in carrying out our demands." The toad's lips parted into a sinister, toothless smile. "He shall loose more than fur." The wolverine was going red in the face, no doubt suppressed rage. Warthog went on, loving the attention. "We do not ask for much... just... twenty times his weight in bugs and beetles!"

There was silence, a stunned silence Warthog liked to think. He had no doubt his name would go down in toad history. The Bog-dweller who brought down a King!

Any and all visions of glory and power vanished the moment Longclaw burst into laughter.

"HAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHA!" Boomed the voice of the wolverine. "HAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHA!" His great clawed paw slapped his knee with enough strength to kill a lesser beast. "Y-you- w-wait hahahahaha! Let me cahahahatch my breaAHAHAHAHAHAHAHA!"

Warthog felt his confidence waning and his chest deflating. The masked fox gazed at him with pity in his eye, the fat weasel was smiling gleefully (which could not be a good thing) and Longclaw still had his head thrown up at the ceiling. The air was growing colder and Warthog could not help noting the size of the wolverine's fangs. He swallowed audibly and shivered, waiting for what could only be called diabolical laughter to end.

At last it did and the wolverine composed himself, his broad chest shaking with suppressed giggles. "You are... quite the tribe."

"Th-thank you." Warthog stuttered out, now truly frightened.

"But please do tell me why I should care about this... Fufret. Last I heard Marik had many sons and daughters but left no heir. How could he? He had nothing to leave behind. He was nothing. Any child of his would be heir to nothing but misery and misfortune." He flicked a speck of dust off his throne, the tip of his claw making a loud scratching sound. "You call Marick my warlord? He has been dead for about ten seasons and whatever that beast was he was not mine. Oh yes, he grovelled at my feetpaws when he needed something and everything he ever had, he had because of me." Longclaw smiled down at the shivering toad. "Yet I would not raise a claw to help him were it not to my benefit. Tell me, why should I do anything for one of his kits?"

"B-b-because..." Warthog swallowed again. He was well and truly at a loss for words. "B-b-because the little beast said- he said to tell his father about it o-or you. An-and he said there would be a ransom. Offered to write a l-letter an-and everything."

Longclaw shook his head, on the verge of uncontrollable laughter again. "The Great Yellowbelly Tribe... outsmarted by a child. Of course he'd tell you he was important, that way you're sure to keep him alive. It would not surprise me if he has already slipped through your webbed little fingers. A clever little beast no doubt. And what was your plan again? To remove body parts and bring them to me for inspection until I decided, from the goodness of my heart, to pay a ransom of insects to you?"

"I-i-it wasn't m-my plan y-your m-majesty Kingbeast f-furbody. 'Twas Slimegut's our Chief's. I-I said the boy was lying. I-I thought it m-might be a-"

"Spitteeth, if our guest lies again I would like you to behead him and add his skull to the walls." Longclaw waited for the white fox to give a small nod of understanding, before turning back to Warthog. "I find your stupidity amusing, but do not insult my intelligence. You toads have long tongues, but they're not all made of silver." The wolverine paused, idly drawing circles on the arms of his throne. "I could send you back to your tribe now, you would inform them of the ferret's duplicity and the kit will meet a grisly end if he has not already escaped."

Warthog nodded feverishly. "Y-yes. I-I'll tell them the l-little rat was lying! W-we'll make the brat suffer! L-lots of painful things!"

"Indeed." Longclaw steepled his fingers. "But I'm not going to do that. To allow your tribe to murder a helpless vermin... is not the act of a Vermin King. Instead I will lock you up in the coldest and darkest of my dungeons. Flayface can decide whether or not he wants to feed you. When the next toad comes, with presumably the next piece of ferret, I will bring you out. Whichever part is missing from the kit, I will remove from you. Pray they remove his tail and not his head."

Warthog's eyes went as wide as a pair of saucepans. He saw pity flash across the eyes of the dead-fox, but a moment later it was gone. "B-b-but I-I'm j-just the m-m-mess-"

"Yes, yes." The large vermin sounded bored. "Don't kill the messenger and all that rubbish. Never fear frog-" The fact that Warthog did not immediately respond with 'I am a toad' spoke volumes of the depth of his fear. "I am sure once your Chief hears of your plight he will swiftly release the captive ferret. We will in turn release whatever's left of you."

The sound of loud whimpering pierced the chilly air of the throne room, followed swiftly by the cackles of Zabal and Chorba.

"Shoulda run when ye had the chance tadpole!" Hooted the fat weasel. Swaggering over he delivered a sharp kick to the once-proud amphibian's nose. This only increased the volume of the whimpers.

"Take him away." Longclaw commanded. "Put him somewhere dark and cold and..." He paused on the verge of saying 'damp'. Weren't frogs partial to swamps? "And dry. "

Zabal nodded and placed a firm paw on the toad's shoulder. "Don't worry yer majesty, I'll take good care of him."

Chorba slunk over and placed a paw on the toad's other shoulder. "Aye, yer Kingliness. Make sure he feels right at home!" With identical, sadistic cackles the two dragged the terrified toad away.

One-Eye Fleetfoot felt a stab of pity for the poor toad. Neither vermin nor bog-dwellers were known for their mercy, the arrangement at paw would mean suffering for everybeast involved and the captives especially. He felt a stab of pity too, for the ferret... even if they were Mad-Eye Marik's son. The wolverine king had sounded dismissive of it. What kind of a name was Fufret anyways? The poor beast was undoubtedly terrified. Strangely enough the name sounded familiar... He had no more time to ponder for Longclaw was speaking again.

"Spitteeth, please escort Far-Eyes to her chambers. Something has come to my attention that I must have a discussion with Flayface." The wolverine smiled a smile that did not reach his eyes. His fangs gleamed and his claws motioned the disguised hare closer.

One-Eye Fleetfoot could only guess what he wanted.


	68. The Day Was Bally Eventfull

**A/N: WarthogOne-Eye: You are... But it is out of character for you to say that :P**

 **Waycaster: It would be a good book! But... I doubt Warthog's reading ability...  
**

 **Yeah, maybe I'll write a drabble about it (although, realistically isn't Bork the one more likely to hunt bugs and beetles to free some vermin child? Read 'more likely' rather than 'is the type to'- Bork would probably grab Warthog by the leg and take him to Slimegut)**

 **Yeah Fleetfoot was fun to write... but as you will see...**

 **Abrahem:Yup it's a rotting tail. The whole 'attachable fox tail' thing is inspired by Plugg Firetail from... I think it was Triss but I'm not sure. I haven't read it but he had a stoat and a rat hold up his tail so that it didn't drag along the ground. I made it ever-so-slightly more morbid methinks.  
**

 **Does Longclaw care about verminkind? Not really. Does he care about vermin children? Well if his treatment of Bork is any indication... no. No he doesn't. If he really wanted to he could send a few good fighters to rescue the ferret and slay the toads. Yet he's more than happy leaving 'Fufret' to rot amidst the Bog-dwellers and potentially loose body parts. That said, he is a Vermin King. He can't let a toad walk over any of his kind. That's his job. Hence the 'whatever you do to him, we do to you' attitude he takes. I'm glad you thought he was cool! He hasn't had much to do this story so I'm hoping to rectify that a little bit because he does make a pretty awesome villain (and he's fun to write).**

 **Eh don't worry about Warthog. We'll see him again... Or whatever's left of him anyways ;)**

 **We won't be getting back to Fret for a while unfortunately (lots of other stuff to get through) but I do have some ideas on how to incorporate a Monkey's Fist... Though I think it might be called something else in Redwall. I doubt Monkeys exist here...**

 ***Is secretly glad you asked because I want to brag* My farm is something of a petting zoo to be honest. A er- highly disorganized petting zoo mind. We currently have six cows, one bull, four goats (one is male the others are gals), four turkeys, three peacocks and one sheepdog. We had a lamb but they were sickly and sadly passed earlier this year. The sheepdog was lonely. We also have about ten or so beehives (do not pet the bees). Hmmm... I think for the vegetarian question it's best to just list what I don't eat. Mushrooms, meat, fish, eggses and that's it. All of the cows are dairy cows but only one of them gives milk (and has been doing so for the past year- despite her calf being a stillbirth). We have a lot of land but most of it is not really in use (my life story is a... long and complicated one but the general gist of it is that we haven't actually been on the farm for most of the time we owned it. I have been here many times but this is the first time I've been here consistently). This year we focused more on construction (I am building a house out of hay- not inspired by the First Little Pig) than agriculture but eventually we should get going. There are quite a lot of fruit and nut (hazel and wallnut) trees as well but mostly we collect for ourselves rather than distribution. It's not exactly a working business (yet) but it's getting there!**

 **AlexFalTalon:Yes Flayface is... calm...**

 **I mean yeah, nothing really happens if he releases Warthog... But can you expect to walk in and make ridiculous demands from a King? And get away with it?**

 **Not too dark I hope! (I always struggle with balancing that out). That said, fair warning it might get a bit darker here...**

 **Enjoy!**

The door closed behind the seer and the bodyguard, leaving Flayface (or rather, Fleetfoot) alone with the Wolverine King. Longclaw pushed himself off his throne and once more motioned for the masked 'fox' to draw closer.

One-Eye had been in Longclaw's presence enough times by now to not immediately be put off by the fangs and claws, but he had yet to master the feeling of complete terror that gripped him by the chest whenever they were alone. The King of Ice and Snow was a humongous creature, easily capable of tearing his limbs apart if he so willed.

And what did he want now? The hare doubted it was anything to do with meals. The wording was odd too, what had come to his attention? His heart racing One-Eye had to force his feetpaws forwards. They yearned to turn and run and flee and hide, but many seasons in the Long Patrol had given him full control of his mind and body. If he ran now it would either give the game away completely or draw unnecessary suspicion. If the matter was trivial fleeing could only lead to an investigation... and he doubted his disguise would hold under scrutiny.

So he marched forwards, till he and Longclaw stood face to face. Or as close as face to face as they could be, when one was so much taller than the other.

"You seem to have grown shorter." The wolverine mused, inspecting his claws. "Age getting to you?"

"No sah! Just in me knees."

Longclaw seemed amused by the comment, but did not make any further reply. He placed a strong arm over the fox's shoulders and guided him to another, smaller room. One-Eye was forced to follow. He was surprised, in this close proximity, to find that Longclaw smelled... strange. There was a hint of the usual vermin musk the Captain had been forced to get used to, buried under some strong herbs and the eerily familiar scent of blood. It, like everything else about the Vermin King, sent shivers down his spine.

"I have known you for a long time Flayface, since we were children. I would be lying to you if I did not admit here and now that replacing you would bring great pain."

One-Eye had his doubts about this, but Flayface knew better than to say so. "Good thing that ain't part of yer plan, eh yer Clawliness?" It was surprisingly easy to do a vermin accent in the presence of Longclaw. The wolverine scared all the 'wot's out of him.

"I have heard troubling news... the kitchen slaves... they grow unruly. Something will have to be done about them..."

Fleetfoot dearly hoped the wolverine had not heard him swallow. He opened his mouth to say something, yet found his throat as dry as dusty tome. His heart began to race and his one good eye searched the hallway for escape routes. How carefully planned was this? Had Longclaw perhaps positioned guardbeasts behind the door? Was Spitteeth waiting for him instead?

"But disciplining slaves is not what I wanted to talk about." One-Eye had barely enough time to breathe a silent sigh of relief; they had come to a halt in front of a window. "There they are... Zabal and Chorba..."

Down in the courtyard the fat weasel and slender ermine came into view, dragging a helpless and loudly sobbing (the hare and wolverine could hear his wailing quite clearly from several floors above) Warthog through the wet snow.

"You are not a beast prone to action, which is why I tell you this. These two plot your murder."

One-Eye, who had only a few moments before been terrified of facing an arranged murder, snorted derisively. "Not good at keepin' secrets are they yer Majesty?"

Longclaw smirked. "I am good at finding out things I want to know. My agent informs me that their current plan involves hiring a slave to do you in. Said slave would be under the impression that they'd be freed by their new and noble masters, rather than slain in what Zabal would call 'an act of revenge'." Longclaw sighed. "This is not the first assassination you have faced but be careful. Do not openly antagonize them but keep your wits always about you."

"With all due respect I can handle a slave, yer Clawliness." One-Eye did not bother hiding the amusement in his voice.

"I do not doubt that. But like I said, replacing you will be hard. These other beasts on the other paw... I will need time to find a replacement though. And maybe they will uncover something we have missed. Or our resident Captain-killer might do us a favor and start with the weasel." He waved a paw dismissively, ending the conversation. "I will not steal you from your duties any longer. You are dismissed."

"Aye yer Majesty." 'Flayface' bowed awkwardly and turned away, eager to leave the wolverine's presence. Longclaw called out to him just before he turned the corner.

"Oh and Flayface." The disguised hare and the King each half-turned to face the other. "Do something about that tail." Longclaw wrinkled his nose in disgust. "It looks _ghastly._ "

* * *

"And he jumped out the window?" Between his frightening experience in close proximity to the wolverine king, the news of a planned attempt on 'his' life, the strange familiarity of the name Fufret and the arrival of one rather unintelligent toad, One-eye Fleetfoot had arrived at the kitchens exhausted, worn-out and ready for rest. He had promptly been bombarded by slaves both traumatized and excited about a very close run in with some strange vermin.

"Yuzz zuree! Oi've even gotten moiself this 'ere fancy tuney-ic!" A burly mole gestured to the tunic he was wearing- easily the finest piece of clothing in the kitchens.

One-Eye was not entirely even sure what exactly had happened. A shrew had been going on about how he'd been licking a pie or something and the Flitchaye (brought to the kitchens solely for their alleged experience with cutting beasts into something edible) were for some reason chanting in tribal verminspeak. A hedgehog's poor paw had been burnt... somehow... and one of the rats had dented a hare's frying pan with their face. Or had the frying pan dented the rat's face?

"It was a close call." Deathglare spoke in his usual whisper, drawing the attention back to himself in an attempt to quell the excitement. He was one of the few beasts present who liked to look at a glass half-empty. "If Silvertongue had not gotten to the door in time-"

"Ye can thank me later." The weasel said with a grin.

"I don't intend to." The pine marten snapped. He had been finding it harder and harder as of late to maintain his air of calm, quiet confidence. "That beast should not have gotten as close as he did. Imagine if he'd brought Longclaw down upon us." Deathglare's eyes glazed over and gave him the look of a beast half-mad. He resembled a deranged lunatic so much that most of the kitchen slaves began backing off. Silvertongue would have too, but the marten held him firmly by the front. The weasel could not seem to take his eyes away from Deathglare's own. "Imagine the horrible, terrible things he'd do to us all _before_ he put us to death." The pine marten ranted, his voice growing to a steady hiss. "We have killed and cooked almost a dozen of his creatures and fed them to him. We are tearing his boats apart. We are planning to escape and take all his slaves. Do you have any idea how precarious our situation is? We were lucky this time, next time we won't be and if you all-"

"An' if ye talk any louder Deathglare the whole damn castle'll hear ye!" Sick-Eyes snapped loudly. Her voice was like a crack of thunder and at once the spell was broken. The kitchen slaves turned away from the scene and went back to their work stations.

Silvertongue, who had been shrinking into himself and away from the terrible thoughts penetrating his mind, straightened up and roughly pushed Deathglare away. He waved his bandaged paw threateningly. "An' no need te worry yerself Death, nobeast's gonna get in again." He spun on his heel and picked out the first slave he lay eyes on. "Moler Mole, yer in charge of the door. Anybeast strange so much as sticks their nose in I want ye to slam it over all their toes!"

Said 'moler mole', who preferred to go by Dawnsnout (he had a strange yellow mark near the tip of his muzzle) scratched the top of his head with a digging claw."Zlam... wutt zurr?"

"I want ye te slam the door on their face an' crush every toe in their footpaws if they so much as peep inte the kitchens, ye hear me?"

The mole was still confused and frowned deeply. "Purrdon oi zurr, but iffen 'ee could tell oi 'oo 'they'-"

Sick-Eyes rolled her eyes, snatched up a nearby stool, stomped over to the door with all the exxagerated loud stomping an old beast could muster and slammed the same stool upon the ground with enough strength (of will) to behead a badger. "Hey mole, why don't ye sit by this here door, on this here stool?"

Dawnsnout must have thought this a great idea, for he eagerly trotted forwards with a 'thank 'ee marm' followed by a comment about how his knees were tired... or something like that. Sometime molespeech was hard even for hare ears.

The doorway now sufficiently guarded, Silvertongue made his way over to Sickletail without a backwards glance.

Deathglare 'harrumphed' and turned his attention to Fleetfoot. "So how was _your_ day hare?"

"Bally eventful." One-Eye replied, pulling the fox skull off with a loud _pop!_ He sighed in contentment, his ears shooting up to their usual positions. Raising a paw to stroke them, he began listing off the day's events. "A toad showed up at the gates demanding some sort of ransom. Their tribe of Yellowballies or whatsits captured some poor beast called... Fufret I think, wot. Sounds jolly familiar, don't it?"

"Not particularly." In any case Deathglare seemed more interested in his claws.

"Well anyways..." One-Eye wriggled free of the slaver tunic and pulled on the dirty and ragged remains of his Long Patrol uniform. "I met the new Captains, Zibal and Charba or something like that and I am frankly not impressed wot wot. Very rude and demanding, foul of tongue and foul of scent and they have already made plans to dispose of me." He managed to stop himself from saying 'typical vermin'. Somehow he doubted his present company would appreciate the comment.

Now Deathglare seemed interested. He raised an eyebrow. "Truly?"

"Legitimately ole chap, wot wot. Longclaw told me himself don'tcha know? Said they were thinking of using a slave to do me in."

The pine marten snorted and could not hide the smirk that crossed his lips. "Their deceptive ability is one thing we won't have to worry about."

A cry of pain brought the pair's attention (and indeed, nearly every eye in the kitchen) to Silvertongue. The weasel was clutching his bandaged paw and trying desperately to hide the stream of tears slipping down his face. Sickletail was holding a rolling pin in one paw, the other tentatively reaching towards her mate's.

"Nothin' te see here!" Sick-Eyes barked, once more reminding everybeast that she was in charge. "Silver's just broke a claw or somethin'. Back te work!"

You did not need to be a Long Patrol Captain to piece together what had happened. One-Eye frowned as he turned back to Deathglare. "They've been quite argumentative as of late, those two."

Deathglare shrugged. "They're married, it comes with the territory."

Fleetfoot had been married, and did not recall much in the way of argumentativeness. When he said so, the pine marten merely shrugged.

"Woodlanders must be different, but I have not seen a single vermin couple that has not bickered at some point."

One-Eye glanced back to make sure neither weasel was paying attention to them. "Bickered? She nearly flattened his bad paw-"

"And it's hardly the first time." Deathglare rolled his eyes. "Only a few seasons ago she gave him a pair of black eyes. And the season before that she broke his leg. Sickletail is a warrior, hare. She may not mean to hurt him but she does and Silvertongue puts up with it because he knows she would never _truly_ hurt him. Or at least... she never means to. I sometimes feel she does not know her own strength, especially when her judgement is clouded. The stress is likely getting to her... I won't lie it is starting to get to me too."

"Me as well ole chap. Me as well... but I guess we don't really have a choi-"

The black-furred vermin raised a paw for silence. "Please do not comfort me with something I already know. I am _keenly_ aware that nobeast has got a better idea."

The hare rolled his eyes and decided he had had enough of the marten. It had been a long day and he was barely holding back the yawns as it was. "I had better be off then. Wouldn't want to keep Connington w-waaaaaaaaaiting."

"Your bed must not wait too long either." Deathglare remarked, his paws waving Fleetfoot away. "Sleep well hare."


	69. After The Trial

**A/N: Back in Redwall again for a brief interval, so as not to bore you all to death with the Northlands politics and whatnot. Brief but big thank you to Keldor (known here as keldor314) for hopping along. He is now the official beta-reader of Black and White. A beta-reader is more or less an editor but I would also like to emphasize that Keldor does help clean the plotlines up and give (many good) suggestions and ideas (I mean you're all welcome to give those) in addition to banishing the typos off the face of this good earth. I'm going to recommend his fic The Deserters here, it's only two chapters in and not too long word-wise, but it's a fun retelling (kinda) of Salamandastron following Thura and Ding-eye (who are the dumbest vermin in fiction and I say that in the nicest way possible XD)  
**

 **AlexFalTalon: A while ago XD Flayface was the fox who got killed by everyone, the replacement slavemaster. I suppose this is the biggest flaw with such a sprawling tale. Inevitably some parts of the fic will end up forgotten. So yeah... Fleetfoot is Flayface. The real Flayface though was killed and cooked into soup. Which Longclaw ate. And liked. I'm dark like that sometimes.**

 **As to why they didn't smell him, for one thing he's dressed in Flayface's clothes- which have probably never been washed- is wearing a fox skull and a rotten tail. I think the rotting tail is the biggest er- deodorant here. Noone wants to sniff too closely y'know.**

 **Abusive relationship, eh? Is that the case or... is it meant to show something else?**

 **Waycaster: I do think Longclaw sees himself as an above-average (read cultured) hordeleader, that said is this out of culture or self-interest? He knows what Flayface is capable of doing, surely he's a safer lackey than two ambitious unknowns.**

 **We will get more Honest Bunch backstories... eventually. Frankly the only one I have mapped out _fully_ is Threeclaw - though part of Sick-Eye's charm is that she... well her backstory is so over the top it's almost like she's making it up to sound more interesting. Good point about marriage for love, but there *is* always the option of falling out of love. Which isn't what's happening here mind. Sickle and Silver aren't falling out of love. **

**Abrahem: Hehehe, I will :)**

 **I'm not going to comment on whether or not he's onto One-Eye and so on, you all know the drill be now. That said, he and Flayface did know each other since childhood (small details are easy to forget, worry not). Chapter 39, the Longclaw segment reads "** **Flayface the Foul they called him, though Longclaw knew him as Flayface the Fool. He almost trusted the fox, but alas, knew that his current slavemaster had tried to murder him half a dozen times over the course of their lifetime, half of those before the age of seven." Again, small details, nothing to fret about (I'm only clarifying so you don't enter the depths of far-fetched theorizing XD)  
**

 **You make some pretty good points regarding Silver and Sickle, just thought I'd add that- before when they thought their kids were dead, they were fighting with the knowledge that if they lose, they die. Now, if the lose, they die and never see the kids ever again. So funnily enough the fact that their babes are alive amplified the stress if you will.**

 **My accent is... *Drumroll*... Eh I'm not sure? I've been told I have an american accent before- but 'American' is preety vague considering how many different accents there are there. I speak French with a german accent (but dont know German... funnily enough). I er- am quite good at doing accents (I can do a pretty decent Scoottish/Welsh/Irish hodgepodge) but I'm not sure what my 'normal one' is.**

 **Sebias: Baked Warthog? Tastes like pork! Keep in mind though, that Longclaw doesn't know that Fufret escaped.**

 **Yes... marriage problems :) We'll go with that...**

 **An intriguing guess. A little game of knives in the dark is always fun, no?**

 **Thank you everyone for the reviews and stuff. Here's the chapter. Hope you like it.  
**

Despite his initial fury, Threeclaw did not protest his guesthood again. He was, in his own words 'pas exactement thrilled', but he wasn't throwing a tantrum either. He seemed more annoyed in fact, by Matiya's irrepressible excitement and giddiness.

"You'll absolutely love it here!" The squirrel was insisting, in what was probably an attempt to cheer the stoat up. "Life h-here is- it's peaceful and calm an-and it's easy. I mean, yeah we all have to help out with the harvesting and cleaning up and stuff but you know they're just chores. Not hard to do. And I don't think Abbot Martin is giving us lessons, because the others aren't back yet and he's probably busy with abbot things anyways. B-but that means we can spend more time practicing!" Matiya grabbed Threeclaw by the paw and half-lead, half-attempted-to-drag the albino across the grounds. "We have a pond, but I think it's a bit early for swimming."

"I see troi otters splashing."

"I mean... it's never early for otters. But me and you'd probably get a cold or something." Matiya shrugged and continued excitedly hopping around the stoat. Threeclaw for his part was wearing a bemused smirk. "And we have an orchard and it's Spring already which means the first flowers and stuff should be coming up now. And there's usually too much fruit to know what to do with. Ooh! Ooh! Ooh! We can climb the outside of the belltower! I've always wanted to but my mother- I mean if you did it with me-"

"Desole, I'm not a treebeast."

"Well that's... fine." Matiya stopped bouncing for all of three seconds. "But we can still duel and stuff. And there might even be a book or two about swords in the Record Room, although I'm not sure Montague'll let me take it out. He's really possessive about books. Only ever lets Momchillo read them. B-but anyways yeah. And I mean... if that's not enough to warm you up to the place just wait till the next feast. There's always a feast just around the corner you know." Matiya frowned suddenly, his brow furrowed, deep in thought. "I think the grown-ups do it that way so they can threaten us into behaving."

"Very clever grown-ups."

The squirrel stopped bouncing once more, perhaps finally noting that Threeclaw did not seem the least bit interested in abbey life. "So..."

"So." Repeated Threeclaw, brushing his claws clean against his chestfur.

"Do you... well it's a bit early for dinner." Matiya scratched the back of his head. "Do you want... to... see anything?"

"Not really. I daresay there'll be plenty of time for that."

"Right. So... do you think your crew will turn up soon?"

Threeclaw shrugged. "I would rather not talk maintenant."

"Yeah..." Matiya trailed off. "Sorry, I mean, busy day and everything. And yeah I'm sorry you can't leav- Oof!"

A well-placed jab had sent Matiya sprawling to the ground. Wearing a wide, rogueish grin, Threeclaw pressed the stick against the squirrel's throat. "I would rather we are practicing, si? No point wasting daylight, you can show me whatever demain." He spun on his heel and turned away. Matiya knew this was when he was supposed to get up.

He did so, searching for a stick of his own, only for Threeclaw to spin around and toss one at him. Matiya caught it and gave it an experimental spin, the way Threeclaw always seemed to do.

"Very good reflexes." The stoat praised.

Matiya opened his mouth to respond with a 'thank you', but Threeclaw acted faster. Darting forwards the albino swung his 'blade' at the squirrel's, effortlessly snapping it at the base. He cackled with verminous glee at the look of shock on his pupil's face. "Next time you are picking a better weapon, si?" The tip of his 'sword' poked the now-annoyed Redwaller on the nose. Matiya brushed it aside with a scowl.

"You didn't let me pick one."

The albino shrugged. "You were being slow at choosing."

"And you knew that one would break."

"I did, oui. If you are expecting your opponents to give you good weapons then it's a miracle you are not a very, very dead squirrel." He grinned, spun the blade and offered Matiya the 'handle'.

"So is this one going to break as well or do you have something else in mind?" The squirrel asked, taking it anyways.

"I was just going to show you what a swordsbeast can do... without a sword. Feel free to try and hit me as much as you like, as hard as vous voulez." Threeclaw turned again, though this time with a mocking waggle of his tail.

Matiya hesitated a moment, then sprung forwards and made to strike at the stoat's unprotected back. As if expecting the blow to come, and in hindsight he probably had been expecting it, the stoat ducked. The 'blade' sailed overhead and the momentum of Matiya's swing, coupled with a sudden tug at his tail, brought him gracelessly to the ground. He was dazed for all of five seconds, but that was more than enough time for Threeclaw to place a mocking feetpaw upon his head.

"The point of that petit exercise, aside from humiliating you in your own abbey, was to show that you do not need a weapon sometimes. If your opponent is grand, stupid and is being predictable-" As if to underline the last point, the stoat's footpaw ruffled the fur between Matiya's ears. "Sometimes it is better to take their blade than draw your own." Deciding his pupil had been sufficiently humiliated, Threeclaw stepped off his head and helped the squirrel back up. "Maintenant, I will try and tappe vous and you must somehow get me to the ground before I 'kill' you- yes I will not be hitting hard and yes if you do beat me you are more than welcome to make this a sufficiently embarrassing souviens-"

"Matiya!" Came the shrill cry of Blind Agatha, who, from the way she came striding forwards, arms crossed and wearing a cold glare made of solid winter snow, must have been watching for quite some time. "What are you doing?" She asked, once she had reached the two.

The two glanced at one another. It was the kind of look often shared by dibbuns caught in mischief.

"Go on Matiya, tell your famille what we're doing." Threeclaw said, after an icy pause.

"I was just going to. Well... you see mother Threeclaw has been... teaching me." Inwardly, Matiya had debated lying, but knowing his mother as well as he did... there was no point. For one she was probably well aware of what they had been doing (only now did it become apparent that their shenanigans had drawn quite a few stares) and there was no point in lying now if she caught him and Threeclaw at it on a later date.

"Teaching you?" Her lips curled in distaste. "And what exactly does he have..." She gave his calm, confident grin one look of pure revulsion. "To teach?"

Either he hadn't noticed or he was used to such looks and took pleasure in receiving them. "Many, many things mademoiselle. I am a beast of many talents, hard as that may be being to comprehend-"

"What has he been teaching you?" The squirrel demanded, briskly, of Matiya. Only now did Threeclaw seem offended. The stoat frowned, grew silent and turned away to stare at the gates.

"Sword-work." Matiya mumbled, gazing at his feetpaw. His mother had never truly approved of his desire to be the next Abbey Warrior, and while such disapproval had never stopped him from prancing around with wooden swords she had never encouraged him to seek out potential tutors, nor had she let anybeast willing to teach him, teach. It would have been one thing for him to return to Redwall, clean and fit, learning from a Badgerlord or a hare of the Long Patrol. But he'd come back looking like a bird's nest and trying to emulate the combat style of a vermin kidnapper.

"We have been over this Matiya." She said, sounding exhausted.

"I know mum but-"

"Your son is exceptionally talented." Threeclaw butted in. "He has good reflexes and I could not have asked for a better student. He is obedient and smart and learns quickly. We have already made much progre-"

"Yes I can see the bruises." Agatha snapped.

The stoat would have replied with something along the lines of 'they'll help him remember the lessons better', had Matiya not trodden on his tail.

Her nose held high and her eyes shut, the elder squirrel went on, oblivious. "In any case, Matiya I don't think even you know when's the last time you washed up. I've boiled some water and there's soap and a clean habit waiting for you." She turned away. "Come along now."

Knowing better than to argue Matiya did as he was bid and followed in her footsteps. It was hard to say whether he or Threeclaw looked more sullen about the latest turn of events.

* * *

"How _dare_ ye!"

"Who de ye think ye are?"

"Kill the abbotmouse!"

Bow, Fang, and Jewel probably couldn't kill the old mouse even if they wanted to. And they didn't _really_ want to anyways. But somehow or other they had found out about Threeclaw's questioning. And they had found out that a certain abbotmouse had not told them about it. And now they were trying to bite him.

Small though their teeth were the old mouse did not doubt their sharpness and in the initial panic that followed their calls for his murder he had scrambled up the door. Hanging from the top of it, his tail and feetpaw pulled out of reach of the most violent dibbuns in the abbey's history (or at least, the most consciously violent) the aged rodent tried and failed to reason with the enraged triplets, all while Cheese watched from the corner.

"Ye tried te feed Threeclaw te yer badger!" Snarled Fang, who hopped as high as she could in an attempt to rake his tail red.

"I assure you th-that was not the case." The Abbot protested. He would have been wringing his paws, the way he often did when flustered, were they not the only thing keeping him away from the voracious trio.

"Don't lie te us!"

"We heard the mousies talkin' about it!"

"An' we also know how ye locked him up in a dinghy cell an' left him to rot in manacles that go 'clink, clink' everytime he moves!"

"I-I did no such thing!"

As one all four weasels snapped. "Liar!"

"Please!" The Abbot pleaded, for his arms were growing tired. "I-it was- he's fine! We just wanted to ask some questions f-f-for clarification so we could find out where our children are. T-to get an idea of what happened. An-and we haven't locked him up! He's free to roam the grounds an-and the Abbey if he's supervised."

"Yer tryin' te trick us with fancy talk!" Jewel accused, attempting to clamber up the door after him.

"Aye! What kinda word is 'cleariffickation'?" Bow demanded, waving a tiny fist up at the bespectacled woodlander.

"We wanted t-to understand w-what happened." The Abbot was sweating profusely by now, his arms straining under his weight, his old bones creaking. Why! He hadn't had to climb up a doorside since dibbunhood! "I-it was boring. A singularly boring affair! H-had I known you were so keen to erm- come I'd have brought you. B-but I thought, I mean really it would have put you all to sleep."

Fang narrowed her eyes and crossed her arms, but considering she'd been trying to claw him moments ago Martin considered this an improvement. "Why didn't ye ask us?"

"B-because I knew it would b-b-bore you." In truth Abbot Martin had quickly ruled out inviting them to the trial for the opposite reasons. They would have taken the first opportunity to cause chaos, perhaps by biting the Log-a-log if he threatened Threeclaw. Which the shrew had done. The abbot dreaded to think how much louder he would've had to shout to get some semblance of order. "There were lots of l-long b-boring words everywhere an-and Threeclaw himself was almost snoring!"

The quartet 'harrumphed' in unison, but the triplets turned away from the door. Though they grumbled under their breaths and spoke with the air of mutinous pirates, the aged rodent knew that he was no longer in danger of scratches. Gently sliding back to the ground he gave both his arms a quick rub.

Clearing his throat awkwardly, the aboot continued. "Anyways... I erm yes. I thought you might like to know that Threeclaw will be staying in the abbey until more of your er companions show up."

The weasels gave four, strangely distinct, cries of delight and rushed back towards the abbotmouse. Having not expected such a turn of events the aged rodent landed heavily on his backside, his spectacles askew. The quartet crawled over him, practically bouncing up and down with glee.

"Will he be stayin' here?"

"That hasn't been-"

"Or does he get his own room?"

"Well I'm not sure about a room but he'll have-"

"Can he play with us?"

"If he wants to." The mouse replied, trying to re-adjust his spectacles.

"Does he want te play with us?" Jewel asked, tugging at his whiskers.

The Abbot tried and failed to push himself into a more comfortable position. "I haven't really asked-"

"Will ye read stories te him as well?" Fang seemed as interested in the answer as she was with his tail.

"It's not something I considered-"

"Will ye make him wash up and brush his teeth?"

"I mean some level of basic hygiene-" Before Martin could finish replying Cheese bounced and landed on his stomach. The weasel did not weigh much but neither did the poor abbot, who was promptly winded. None of the dibbuns seemed to notice.

"Does the badgerlady want te eat him?"

"Are ye gonna make him work for ye an' clean all the pots an' pans?"

Unable to extricate himself from the grip of their questioning, and unsuccessful in his attempts to so much as sit up, the aged rodent resigned himself to his fate and tried his best to answer the very many questions placed before him.

Luckily for him there came a knock at the door and Friar Gord entered, no doubt having heard the commotion. "Father Abbot sir... do you need any help?"

"I er- well... yes." The weasels scrambled off of the abbot as the portly hedgehog gently helped the old mouse to his feetpaws.

"I've got you sir." Gord scratched at his head-spikes, leaned in and whispered. "Would you like me to get these rascals off your paws and set them washing dishes or something?"

Martin brushed away the suggestion. "No, no, that's quite alright. They had good reason to be upset." The abbot sighed. "Why don't you go and inform the others that Threeclaw will be joining us at dinner?"

The round ball of quills wearing an apron (which was what the dibbuns thought he looked like) nodded. "If you need me for anything er- don't hesitate to shout."

Friar Gord left and Abbot Martin turned to the weasels. The old mouse sat down and cleared his throat. "I will answer all of your questions to your heart's content." He promised. "But please do ask them one at a time."

The endless stream of questions returned.

* * *

Friar Gord must have looked particularly bitter upon entering the kitchens, for Mormont, who was helping with the dishes felt compelled to ask what was wrong.

"Didn't you hear? Not only are those devilish weasels going to be at dinner, but Threeclaw as well!"

"Do you think they'll behave themselves?" The mouse asked nervously.

The Friar's reply was as blunt as they came. "No." _Which meant his pudding was in grave danger..._


	70. Manners And Etiquette

**A/N: Abrahem, Waycaster, Keldor (figured I'd just dump all the review responses in one place): Agatha has quite a lot of good reasons to not trust Threeclaw. It's one thing if he's learning to fight from a respected, honorable source. A guy who kidnaps kids and admits to it? Even the fact that he's vermin isn't high on her list of concerns, it's that he is a kidnapper. His job description is kidnapping kids! I think even Constance would have second thoughts about letting him teach her son.**

 **The feast... shall be eventful ;)**

 **Enjoy, as a side-note we will still be following Redwall for the next few chapters. I'd say the next three for sure at least.**

Following the trial, Friar Gord had made a small dinner, consisting of no less than three different types of soup and pastries and half a dozen varieties of fruit salads. The hedgehog had thought it wise not to overdo himself, after all there were still plenty of leftovers from the previous night's feast. The news of his son's safety and good health had been an inspiration, to say the least, and the dishes were once again delicious. For this all the abbeybeasts were grateful.

"You mean he'll be staying here?" The news of Threeclaw's questioning had spread like wildfire and it was all anybeast could discuss.

Bella cracked her knuckles and nodded grimly. "Until the rest of our children turn up anyways."

The Recorder harrumphed around a raspberry cupcake. "In that case we had better get used to him."

"Now now Montague, there's no reason to be a pessimist." Friar Gord, a portly hedgehog by all accounts, wagged a disapproving ladle at the bespectacled mouse. "My Grollo's on his way, and Hawthorn too."

"Not my Momchillo..." Rosebrush muttered into her soup. The sad little mouse would have been offered comfort had a dozen hares not suddenly burst through the doorway.

"Ah there he is!"

"The Friar, wot!"

"Just the chap we wanted so see!"

"We're off!" The tallest hare explained, as he and the other members of the Long Patrol with him, snatched at the salads and pastries and stuffed them into haversacks. "All bloomin' winter and not a trace of anybeast." He shook his head from side to side and bit into a cheesecake. "We were beginning to lose hope don'tcha know? But then the squirrel shows up- I mean one dibbun alive eh? Others must be fine too, it's the only logical explanation!"

The shortest hare continued. "And this time we shan't return till we've got them all accounted! Ain't that right chaps?"

There was a chorus of 'yes sahs' followed by a swarm of 'wot wots'.

Saluting smartly the group spun on their heels and marched out to cheering and whoops of joy. Only the Friar, wearing an ugly scowl, seemed disgruntled by their sudden entrance and departure.

"They've stolen all my haversacks..." He muttered, the ladle shaking in his paws.

"Well there you have it Montague." Rosebrush grinned widely, forgetting her previous sorrow. "It's only a matter of time before the others show up."

The abbeybeasts cheered again, in part to drown out any further pessimism from the Recorder, who's bitterness was left to simmer.

"And when they do Redwall will once again be free of vermin!" A much smaller cheer (made by perhaps half of the shrews present) followed the words of the Log-a-log.

Constance cleared her throat icily, and a hush fell upon the hall. "Not if Fret comes back."

The few Guosim that had cheered had the grace to look apologetic. The Log-a-log did not and stabbed a radish leaf, yet said nothing in reply.

"And I don't think we're getting rid of the weasel babes anytime soon, either." Bella added, in part to take the conversation away from the rather complicated and potentially volatile subject of Constance and her adopted son. "The Abbot seems fond of them and it would be heartless of us to toss them out just because our own young returned."

There was a quiet murmur of acknowledgement, followed by the usual sound of dishes being scraped clean and refilled.

"Has anybeast seen Mefelda?" Friar Gord scratched at his head-spikes and scanned the tables. "And Mormont was in the kitchens before but he doesn't seem to be here now. Are they not hungry or?"

"Nah, they're hiding out in the gatehouse." A chubby otter informed. "I was at the pond you see, saw them sneak in with blankets and everything."

"Hiding?" Bella repeated, a frown on her lips. "Why would they be hiding?"

"The stoat of course." Montague said briskly. "Mefelda's expecting and Mormont's always been a bit on the er- shall we say cautious- side of things. There is a literal, confessed kidnapper within these walls and I for one think they have the right of it. The further they are from Threeclaw, the better."

"There's no point in them skipping dinner." Friar Gord scowled, not wanting anybeast to miss out on the rebirth of his cooking skills. "You don't mind fetching them, do you?"

The addressed otter shrugged and stood up. "I could try but I think it might be easier if I brought some vittles to them."

"Assure them that if that vermin lays any of his three claws on them I will personally rip his tail off and strangle him with-"

"Bella!" The Friar snapped. "Not at dinnertime, please!"

The badgermum, now frowning apologetically, had the grace to look abashed while sipping her tea. The otter, snickering, departed, two platters filled and at the ready.

Once more there was a pause in the conversation, as plates and bowls and cups were emptied and refilled.

"What about that hedgehog lady?" Montague asked, voraciously tearing apart a brunt turnover. "Quite an odd beast really. Very sensitive and all tha-"

"She's also rather nice." Rosebrush butted in. "I was showing her to her room earlier and I don't have anything mean to say. I don't think we should have any problems with her and if she does choose to stay she's more than welcome to."

There came a hearty cheer (which coincided, coincidentally, with the arrival of a particularly marvelous pudding). Damsons were artfully arranged around the sides of the dish, a sprinkling of candied chestnuts topped the wobbling blob, and powdered sugar was carefully sprinkled on in a pattern- one that greatly resembled a young hedgehog.

The Friar flushed with pride as he placed the pudding at its deserved spot in the center of the table. "And we mustn't forget that she looked after Grollo and Hawthorn for us. No doubt kept them warm and well-fed." The fat hedgehog proceeded to dish out the pudding with a flourish, giving Rosebrush a particularly large scoop.

 _BANG!_

The door was flung open. Agatha stomped towards the table, and over protests of a certain Friar, dumped a dusty blanket onto it with vengance, as if both the blanket and the table had done her some great ill. "Where is Matiya?" She demanded.

"Agatha please! Get that old carpet off of my table!" The Friar was shaking with so much silent fury that the jelly threatened to topple to the ground.

"It's not a carpet." She snapped, waving it in his face. The hedgehog almost fell over. "It's my son's blanket and it is covered in blood!"

The Foremole intervened, rescuing the pudding and placing it carefully upon the table. "Burr, itten moight be a toiny scratch."

"It's that stoat." Agatha snarled. "H-he oh you should've seen him today!"

"What did he do?" Bella placed her tea on the table, and wore the expression of one preparing to tear a beast apart.

"He was beating my son! With a stick! An-and Matiya! The- oh you know how he is! Wanting to be the Abbey Warrior and all that. I thought he'd grow out of it by now b-but he- the stoat is teaching him! Teaching! He- he doesn't understand h-how dangerous tha- that vermin is! How he might- and he won't tell me anything!"

"Agatha dear, please sit down." Rosebrush suggested, offering a seat.

The squirrel did so. "I just d-don't understand why he would- and not telling me- and-"

"If this vermin thinks he can get away with hurting our young in our abbey no less." Bella cracked her knuckles.

"There naow Mizz Bella 'ee can sit 'eesself down again. 'Tain't nuffin teh be gettin' 'eeself all stressled about. Zreeclaw an' Mout'ee'a were a playin'."

"Playing! Y-you call that playing? H-he knocked him to the ground! Twice! An-and-" Agatha growled. "I don't want my son around him. A-a kidnapper! A vermin! A-a scoundrel! And a bully! All he seems capable of is h-harming our children!"

"Matiya will be fine." Constance assured her. "He is home again and he is safe. That stoat can't do anything to him. Either me or Bella or a good cell will make sure of that."

"It's not the stoat I'm afraid of! I-it's Matiya! Look at him, trusting a beast wh-who stabbed one of his friends! An innocent child! An-and M-Matiya trusts him b-because he teaches him h-how to swordfight? H-he's naive! And a danger to himself an-and-"

"He can't expect to learn much from vermin anyways." The Log-a-log interrupted with a cackle. The portly little shrew helped himself to a generous piece of pudding. "Most of 'em fight like a pair of half-blind old crones with their legs tied together!"

"Some half-blind old crones with their legs tied together fight very well." Threeclaw was instantly recognized by his accent. "I admit I have not seen many, but I am sure one or two can look after themselves tres bien." The stoat smirked and gave a small wave as the abbeybeasts, almost as one, turned to face him. "As for Matiya, I will say what I said before. He is exceptionally talented. And agreed to my tutalage. If he wishes us to stop, we will stop."

"Will you?" Agatha hissed. "I for one, find that extremely unlikely." She flapped open the blanket and gestured at a streak of dried blood. "Care to explain this?"

"I see a dirty carpet." The stoat replied, with dangerous calm.

"This is my son's blanket! And why, pray tell, is there _blood_ on it!?" The squirrel demanded, rising to her feetpaws.

"Your son can answer that question better than I can. Whatever you are holding I have not been seeing it before. And before you continue to tirade and blabber about your son I was thinking it is being rude to talk about beasts behind their backs."

"Rich of you to speak of manners." The Log-a-log spat. "Guosim! We'll be sleeping on the walltops tonight, to make sure there's no funny business." There were some muffled complaints, and while shrews did love arguing, here they must have seen a lost cause and decided to take the path of least resistance.

Threeclaw waved them away as they passed and blew kisses, which none of them bothered to try and catch, though they acknowledge them with glares and growls of every kind. As soon as they had departed the stoat turned back to the rest of the abbeybeasts and cleared his throat. "I understand that it is time for dinner."

After a short pause Friar Gord nodded. "Yes well... sit down I suppose. I-if you washed your paws that is. I-it is, well we generally wash our paws here-"

Threeclaw marched forwards and thrust his paws outward. "Spotless, oui? It may surprise you but I know my way around a bar of soap." Now that he had mentioned it, the abbeybeasts became aware of the soft, delicate fragrance of spring roses that followed him around. No doubt he'd found the scented soaps.

"Steal a lot of them, do you?" Montague remarked, just as Threeclaw pulled up a stool.

The stoat smiled dangerously and replied with a question of his own. "Would you be thinking more or less of me if I answered _honestly_?"

Before the Recorder could reply Roseheart, who Threeclaw had just sat next to, stood up abruptly. It was obvious from the way she was shaking that the molemaid was terrified. "Oi be fuller. Good noight!" Without waiting for any kind of response (and indeed before anybeast could give any) she turned and fled from the hall.

"Do not be letting the bed snakes bite." Threeclaw snickered.

"She hardly touched her food." Bella commented, glaring at the responsible party. It said much of the reputations of badgers that the stoat grew silent.

"So um- Threeclaw, was it? Well we generally help ourselves here but if you want I could-"

"Don't bother monsieur hedgepig. I can be helping myself." The friar opened his mouth and, sensing further protests, Threeclaw went on with the cunning bestowed upon him. "You, mon copain, look famished. Please, be sitting down. Be helping yourself. You must be starving."

"Well I am a bit peckish but..." But it was too late. Before anybeast could stop him Threeclaw had assembled a plate, a fork and a knife. To the surprise of everybeast he did so without breaking or damaging any other plates, knives or forks. "...I suppose you can..." To silent gasps of shock and widened eyeballs the confessed vermin kidnapper whipped out a neckerchief and wrapped it swiftly around his neck with all the polished etiquette of one born and bred by badgerlords. "...Manage..."

"I am glad we are agreeing." Threeclaw continued to bewilder the abbeyfolk by piling his plate high with as many of the assembled delights as he could manage. This in and of itself was not surprising and was the general behaviour of any beast visiting Redwall. What was surprising was that he had done so without spilling a single droplet of soup or shedding a single crumb of pasty. It was not at all like what they expected from vermin. Although in their defense, the abbey's previous resident vermin had not set the bar very high.

As if only now noticing their stares the stoat smiled apologetically. Well it was probably supposed to look apologetic but their was a kind of 'ha in your face!' arrogance in his grin that somehow ruined the effect. "Desole, I am a hungry beast and your cooking is being legendary even among my kind. Could somebeast pass the pennycloud cordial? Por favor?"

Struck dumb by the manners on display, Bella obeyed. Simmering in silent rage Agatha got up and stomped out the hall, blanket in tow. The Badgermum cleared her throat and instinctively everybeast in the hall straightened up and removed their elbows from the table.

"Gracias mademoiselle." Threeclaw replied, holding his only pinkie out while filling a goblet with generous amounts of cordial.

"You're welcome." Said Bella, gruffly. "I must congratulate you on the way you hold yourself. Their is a certain grace to it." The hall had become a warzone. It was a battle of politeness and courtesy, a game of manners and etiquette.

"You are too kind." The stoat sipped his cordial the way woodlanders sipped their tea. "And your cordial is simply divine. My compliments to the chef."

Friar Gord was currently devouring an apple salad and holding a miniature pair of raspberry crumbles in his paws. The hedgehog stopped chewing abruptly, his cheeks bulging with vittles, when he realized that everybeast was staring at him. Swallowing deeply he wiped his mouth on his habit sleeve. Bella shut her eyes and Threeclaw's smugness tripled. "Is er- something wrong?"

"Absolutely nothing!" The albino replied, carefully cutting a turnover into a tiny, bite-sized morsel which he could easily stab with his fork and devour.

The Friar was rescued from further embarrassment by the timely arrival of Matiya.

The squirrel's fur was still damp from his bath and there were patches of wetness on his otherwise clean habit; he hadn't been very thorough with the towel before putting it on. "I'm starving." He said, sitting down besides Threeclaw on Roseheart's abandoned stool. Oblivious to the fact that every eye in the hall was on him, the young squirrel snatched at the nearest dish- a tray half-full of cheesy scones and began wolfing them down with all the grace of a beast half-starved.

No spoon or napkin was in sight. His elbows were on the table. He hadn't even asked for it to be passed to him.

"Matiya dear." Bella's voice was like the rumble of a thundercloud. "There is a stick in your tail."

"Oh. 'Fanks." And now he was speaking with his mouth full and Threeclaw was snickering. The squirrel pulled the stick out of his tail and, because he was hungry, tossed it over his shoulder. Finally he swallowed and faced the albino. "What's so funny?"

"Nothing. Just eat your dinner." Matiya was not sure why Threeclaw had shot him a wink, but shrugged his shoulders and continued to violently and gracelessly tear apart his food- the way hungry squirrels were wont to do.

The following minutes were pure torture for Bella. Threeclaw daintily used his napkin to clear lips that hadn't been dirty to begin with, while Matiya smeared his habit sleeve with the crumbs and fillings of half-a-dozen tarts. The stoat sipped at his drink, so silently he made barely a sound doing so. Matiya was practically gurgling it. Matiya hadn't had his table manners under so much scrutiny since he was a little dibbun!

It was a similar kind of torture for the other abbeybeasts, who had moments ago been eating as swiftly as their appetites allowed, yet were now reduced to a crawl. Elbows were constantly being removed from the table, backs were straightened up with force, napkins were used vigorously. Nobeast dared to talk.

Before long, Abbot Martin, accompanied by the weasels clinging to his paws, walked into the quietest, most formal dinner in the Abbey's history.

"PUDDING!" The weasels shrieked, breaking the silence and forgetting the abbotmouse as they hurried towards the table.

Friar Gord, acting quickly, swiftly snatched up the confectionary and held it high above their heads.

"Grrr! Give it back ye fat ole hedgepig!" Snarled Fang.

"Aye! Give us our dinner!" Demanded Bow.

"Or we'll guts ye!" Jewel brandished a lettuce leaf.

Before the Friar could threaten in kind, the Abbot intervened. "Please, children. Sit down. You can have your fair share of the pudding in due time, but erm yes, this is Friar Gord. He's in charge of the kitchens. And well, a lot of time and effort went into that dish and it's not fair on him for you to er- devour it."

The four harrumphed as one, and muttering evilly about puddings and unfair abbotmousies, they began to lay waste to an unfortunate basket of muffins.

"Thank you Father Abbot." The portly hedgehog returned the dish to it's rightful place on the table, before once again picking up his knife and fork and attempting to cut up a blackberry tart that looked more squashed than sliced.

Sitting down at the special chair reserved for the abbot of Redwall, Martin could not help feeling a little awkward. Their was less silence now that the dibbuns had come to eat, but even his half-blind old eyes could tell something was amiss. "So... how was... orchard clearing?"

The abbey-dwellers, aware of what was going on, all swallowed hastily and went for their napkins. Abbot Martin raised an eyebrow and regretted asking.

"It went well, Father Abbot."

"Lots of grass was cut."

"Yes. We should do it again tomorrow."

"The orchard is cleaner too, thank Martin."

The old mouse adjusted his spectacles. "Right. Well er- that is good to hear. I'm sorry I would have come sooner but I was ah- occupied." Nobeast replied, but many gave the weasels- who had poured strawberry fizz into a large bowl and were now lapping it up- quick, furtive glances.

After several minutes of such forced politeness the Abbot's curiosity got the better of him and he was compelled to ask. "Could someone explain to me what's er- going on?"

Threeclaw was the first to reply, smiling brightly. "We are eating dinner of course!"

"I can see that but... may I ask why...?" The old mouse gestured at all calm and quiet of the normally loud and chattering dining hall.

The stoat shrugged. "Your badger doesn't want to see a vermin with better manners than a woodlander."

"That has nothing to do with it." Bella snapped. The badger paused, unsure of how to proceed- although her first inclination was to smack the smug grin off of Threeclaw's face.

"I mean if that is the case..." Abbot Martin scratched the tip of his nose and cleared his throat. "While er- proper etiquette is indeed very important and a ah- vital part of abbey life-" His eyes drifted to the four weasels, currently digging into a pie rather literally. "I think for the time being anyways formality does not have to be ah- particularly high on our list of priorities."

A sigh of relief seemed to sweep across the hall. The Friar tossed aside his knife- having failed to do more than squash his tart flat- and attacked his plate with all the grace of a saber-toothed cavebeast. Backs were hunched, shoulders sagged, drinks were chugged and chatter returned. The familiar sound of dishes being scraped clean had also come back.

Stifling a yawn the Abbot smiled and reclined on his chair. His eyelids were heavy now, and the hour was late. The old mouse felt himself beginning to drift off into a peaceful, well-earned rest. Briefly Martin wondered whether he'd wake up in bed or in the chair...

The sound of a door being slammed open with enough strength to tear it off it's hinges, brought the aged rodent back to his senses. Agatha had entered the hall, looking furious and a part of him hoped this was just a nightmare he could wake up from.

"Matiya." The squirrel's voice was as chilly as a spring frost. Her son turned to face her, swallowing his current mouthful with an audible gulp.

"Yes mother?" He replied, uncomfortably aware that most beasts were watching now.

Constance strode forwards and placed a paw on the squirrelmaid's shoulder. "Not now Agatha, let the boy-" She was shrugged off and ignored.

"I was in your room earlier today. And I found this." She held out the blanket and Matiya's face fell.

"I can explain tha-"

"I also found this." From under the blanket she procured a rapier. The younger squirrel squirmed uncomfortably at the sight of his own dried blood upon it. "Care to explain?"

"I was sleeping." Matiya was staring at his feetpaws in embarrassment. "And I had a nightmare and I cut myself." For the life of him he could not remember what the horrible night-time manifestation had been. Something about Fret? Yes, that was it! And the ferret had been fat for some reason... The young squirrel was wrenched from his thoughts by a loud clatter.

Agatha had flung both the blanket and the rapier to the floor and furiously placed her paws on her hips. "Do you really expect me to believe that? After I saw your- your tomfoolery with this-this-"

Threeclaw turned swiftly to face her, grin at the ready. "This?"

"This vermin!" Agatha hissed. Her eyes were red and bloodshot. Constance, acting swiftly, placed her paw once more on the squirrel's shoulder, not that stopped her from speaking. "What were you even doing with a real- a real weapon? You could have hurt- you did hurt yourself!"

"I gave it to him." Replied the blademaster. The stoat's voice was calm and cold and sent a shiver down Matiya's spine. "So that when I got here, and when somebeast inevitably called me vermin I didn't kill them." Casually he sipped his tea; pinkie still protruding from his grip..

The older squirrel was struck dumb by this reply, and the underlying threat brought silence to the hall once more. Abbot Martin rose to his feetpaws, but nobeast seemed to notice.

The tension cracked when Threeclaw snickered. "I am joking." His smile seemed to agree but his eyes said otherwise. Coughing awkwardly the stoat rose and made his way towards the pudding.

Agatha glared momentarily at his retreating back, only to turn back to Matiya. She spoke now, loud enough to be heard by all in the hall. "I don't want you around that beast."

Matiya shot to his feetpaws, a strange kind of energy was coursing through him. It was not exactly anger, nor was it adrenaline but it burned white hot. "Just because he's-"

His mother cut him off. "What he is has nothing to do with it." She shot the stoat a look of pure revulsion. "But he is dangerous."

"No he is not!"

"Yes I am!" Threeclaw chimed in, generously filling his plate with scoop after scoop of glorious pudding.

The young squirrel growled but forced himself to remember his manners. He did not need Bella reminding him to respect his elders. Agatha went on.

"I do not want you playing, practicing or being with him. He is a dishonest creature through and through by his own admission."

"You don't know him, mother." Matiya forced himself to reply, knowing full well that he did not know Threeclaw all too well either.

For a beast known as Blind the squirrelmaid was quite perceptive. "And do you?"

Matiya glanced in the stoat's direction, hoping for some sort of advice. He found none for Threeclaw was busy whispering something to the weasel dibbuns. In truth he knew less about his sword master than he liked to admit, especially out loud, but lying was not the abbey way and Threeclaw would probably contradict him anyways.

"Look at me Matiya."

It took a conscious, physical effort to bring his eyes towards his mother's scowling face. Constance still had Agatha by the shoulder and the big mouse had the grace to look apologetic, not that that improved his mood.

"I don't want to repeat myself." Agatha went on. "Will you listen?"

Matiya suppressed the urge to snap 'no', but found himself out of ideas. Bitterly he remembered that nobeast had ever objected to Matthias learning swordplay. Then again Matthias' mentor had been a kindly old mouse, not an eccentric stoat.

"Agatha." Abbot Martin had made his way over by now. "Whatever he is, Threeclaw is our guest unt-"

 _SPLAT!_

Four identical shrieks of laughter pierced the air. Abbot Martin and all his words of wisdom had been interrupted by a pie to the face, thrown by none other than the weasel quartet. They were not the only four who snickered. Threeclaw was giggling next to an appalled-looking Friar, Matiya could not suppress a snort and even Bella looked mildly amused.

The old mouse held onto every trace of dignity he could as he pulled the pie off his face. Wiping cream off his spectacles, he made no sound as he walked slowly towards the oblivious weasels.

 _Splat! Splat! Splat! Splat!_

A tiny cupcake was dunked onto each of them (to Gord's horror), bringing in more laughter from the hall. The Abbot himself was beaming, satisfied at the small measure of pay back he had gotten for all the things they had put him through…

Unfortunately, Martin had miscalculated. Vermin rarely took insults lying down and dibbuns never did.

"Ye'll pay for that abbotmouse." They growled in unison, swaying a pie between their paws.

The old abbot smiled fondly, remembering bygone days when he had been a mischievous dibbun. He'd thrown his own fair share of pies back then…

With a cry of bloodcurdling rage the weasels hurled the pastry forth. Despite his age, the mouse easily avoided it, having had ample time to prepare his escape. Agatha, unfortunately, was called Blind for a reason. She never saw the pie coming.

Howling in rage, amidst gales of barely-suppressed laughter, the squirrel mother freed herself from Constance's grip and seized a soup-pan by the handles.

"Agatha! That's enough!" Bella rose to her feetpaws, but too late. The soup splattered all over Rosebrush and the pan (which had slipped from the squirrelmaid's grip) made a loud clang! upon connecting with the Foremole's head.

"'Ee should knowum better'n to waste yon food." Said the mole, rubbing his digging claws against a small bump.

Rosebrush said nothing at all and hurled the last of the pies at Agatha. Her aim was off and instead it caught an unfortunate shrew.

"Not the treacle tart!" Shrieked the Friar, rising to his feetpaws. But it was too late. The Foremole was guffawing with the wild pleasure of a dibbun let loose, despite (or perhaps because of) the tart currently stuck to his face. "And anything but the pear pas-" The pear pasty exploded against the quills of a hedgehog lucky enough to turn before it struck. Because, of course, the Foremole was not the best of shots.

The hedgehog turned back, her quills bristling, her nostrils flaring. The mole had the grace to tug his nose in embarrassment, as moles were wont to do. That might have been the end of it, had she not heard a small cough.

"Mademoiselle." Threeclaw offered her a tart dripping in meadowcream. "Is the expression not an eye for an eye, a pie for a pie?"

"It surely is!" She cried, having perhaps had a bit too much cordial.

Within moments the Great Hall had become a war zone. All the carefully made salads and soups were thrown about hither and thither. Abbot Martin soon found himself drenched and blinded, his spectacles covered in cream and dressing. The Friar stood in the center, clinging onto his precious pudding protectively. Bella would have put a stop to the nonsense, were she not busy trading pastries with Constance.

Matiya ducked a flying pie and hopped over a river of lava-hot pumpkin soup. He was in no hurry to join in the battle after he'd spent most of the afternoon pulling things out of his tail. Yet a daring sort of excitement coursed through his veins. He longed to leap in and launch a pastry or two, to duck between deadly muffins and-

"You are being welcome." Threeclaw was besides him, unharmed and unstained (to Matiya's surprise and annoyance). The stoat grinned. "Best go to bed before maman can make you pinkie promise, oui?"

 _Of course you were behind it all..._ Matiya grinned back. "Thanks for the diversion."

"Anytime. And duck."

The squirrel did as he was bid, bringing his face into an incoming pie. Matiya growled from under the cream.

The stoat was too busy cackling to hear him. He was also too busy cackling to avoid a pancake projectile that caught him right in the face.

Satisfied with the fairness of the universe (and the fact that Threeclaw took two more pancakes to the vital organs) Matiya fled, leaving a trail of creamy footprints in his wake. They came to a sudden halt when the squirrel tripped over a stray cupcake. He flailed his paws wildly about him as if they were a pair of undersized windmills, yet failed utterly to regain his balance. His momentum did not stop however, not even upon hitting the floor. With a scream he slid forwards, carried forth by rivers of soup and cream. Carried forth directly into the back of Friar Gord's legs.

The hedgehog toppled backwards with a scream of his own and hit the floor with a tremendous crash. Matiya watched in horror as the wonderful pudding the Friar had been cradling flew through the air.

Abbot Martin wiped his spectacles as thoroughly as he could with the soaked sleeve of his habit. Delicately replacing them he winced. The hall would take days to clean and he was quite sure every habit present was ruined. _I had better put a stop to this while I still can…_ "Bella! Everybeast! Please! This is getting out of paw!" Nobeast seemed to have heard him. There came a scream and a particularly loud crash. The old mouse turned just in time to see the wonderful pudding flying towards him. He sighed, resigned to his fate. "Oh dearie me…"

 _SPLAT!_

Matiya winced as the aged rodent fell to the ground. Deciding this was his cue to leave, the squirrel bolted for the door. He reached it without further event and scampered away as fast as he could.

"Woah there mate! Easy on the-" The chubby otter, having returned from delivering Mormont and Mefelda their dinners, would remember to step out of the way of escaping squirrels next time.

"Sorry Flounder." Matiya winced, pulling himself off the dazed lutrine.

"Issalright." The otter replied, rubbing the back of his head. "Geez, what happened to you?"

"Well…" Matiya glanced in the direction of the hall. "There's a bit of a war going on for some reason. And er- I think it's getting a bit out of paw."

"You can say that again." Flounder replied, eyeing him as if he were some never-before-seen species of sentient pudding. To be fair, he probably looked like one.

"Yeah." Matiya chuckled half-heartedly and scratched the back of his head. "You might want to call the Log-a-log."


End file.
